The Fine Line Between You and Me
by ajayd
Summary: Right' and 'Wrong' blur as Harry and Draco just try to survive. If morality doesn't really exist, how do we know if our decisions are the right ones? War, sacrifice, love, suffering, betrayal, choices, SLASH. What more could u want? Plz, plz, plz review!
1. Revelations and Confessions

Spoilers: Everything, including OoP. Ass covering clause: Harry Potter, the HP universe, and all characters associated with said universe belong to J. K. Rowling. Repeat, they do not belong to me.  
  
Summary: Harry discovers something unexpected. Eventual slash. Hopefully, a new twist on the same old premise. HP/DM  
  
Please, please, please review. Constructive criticism appreciated.  
  
Chapter 1: Revelations and Confessions  
  
"Said, I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war."  
  
- Coldplay, Rush of Blood to the Head  
  
The whole thing began with Dean's outrageous claims with regards to Lavender Brown. Behind the secrecy of their dormitory doors, he had described unspeakable acts that riveted, scandalized, and thrilled his hormone riddled roommates. Longbottom had stuffed his head underneath his pillow and pretended not to listen, while Ron and Seamus had insisted on every sordid (and, in all likelihood, not entirely factual) detail of Dean and Padma's most recent encounter. School had only been in session for three weeks, and Padma and Dean had only been an item for thirteen days, and already the tales had progressed to proportions that only ever materialized in the 'Best of PlayWizard' anthologies.  
  
Harry hadn't really listened to Dean with the vigor of Ron and Seamus, usually only keeping half an ear open while focusing on whatever homework had an early deadline the next day. Still, he couldn't help but be curious, skeptical, and a little jealous. Whatever there had been between him and Cho was dead and over; and a summer of solitude and neglect, following the loneliness of his fifth year, had delivered him to what was looking to be a continuation of the last year's isolation. Ron and Hermione were migrating closer together, and there was even a poll on how long it would take for them to get together - though, being well acquainted with the stubbornness of both, Harry suspected both would hold out longer than any bet placed. And yet, it was a migration that left Harry feeling even more distance between himself and others, although it was a distance for which he was increasingly grateful, as differences between himself and others and between his own fate and that of others were making proximity difficult. He was no longer one of 'them', whoever 'they' were. 'They' simply couldn't understand. Hermione had said, somewhat sadly, that his feelings were perfectly normal, and came from having power and from being exceptional.  
  
And so it came to be that Harry lay in bed, sleepless and troubled, debating the validity of Dean's claims and considering his noticeably empty bed. Lavender didn't quite seem the type to be engaging in precocious sexual activities at ten past two on a Wednesday morning. Hermione had insisted that Dean was full of shit, but Ron and Seamus seemed more than willing to give him the benefit of doubt. Harry didn't want to burst Dean's bubble, but his curiosity prodded him and his general mental health wanted confirmation that his envy was or was not unfounded. And so he crawled out of bed and quietly rummaged through this trunk until his hand felt the material of the Marauder's Map. He tiptoed out of the room and, in the dark of the hallway, whispered, "Lumos."  
  
Instantly, a weak light radiated from his wand, just enough to see by. Still whispering, he solemnly swore to be up to no good, then eagerly inspected the map. He found himself both amused and disappointed to locate the D. Thomas label in the Astronomy tower, very much overlapping the label L. Brown. A wry smile graced his lips before his attention was caught by a stationary label located on what Harry considered HIS secret passage to Hogsmeade: D. Malfoy.  
  
A hiss escaped his lips and he felt a swell of rage. He REALLY hated that bastard, and to see him capitalizing upon and therefore desecrating HIS passage infuriated him. He didn't even need to think about it: he quickly and stealthily returned to his room and retrieved his invisibility cloak. He wrapped it around his body and ran out of the Gryffindor dorms to the passage entrance as quickly as possible (within the limits of effective concealment).  
  
He was only a few meters into the passage when a dark, shadowy figure came into view, carrying a dim tipped wand and limping towards him clothed in what looked very much like a rumbled death eater hood and robe. Harry pressed up against the rough wall as the figure shuffled past him, blood running cold as the pale face sent a suspiciously long glance in his direction. Right outside the threshold between the hidden passage and Hogwarts proper, the figure bunched up his robes and lifted them over his head, revealing the thin, pale face of Draco Malfoy and a gaunt, pajama clad body.  
  
Harry bared his teeth, hatred pulsing through his body, a reaction unseen by the Malfoy heir. Draco shakily pointed his wand at the junction of the wall and ground, and mumbled something Harry couldn't make out. Then he bent down and picked up a balled up a package of cloth from what was revealed to be a small, deep indentation at the junction, replacing it with his folded death eater robes. Once he unraveled his new material and placed upon his thin, shivering frame, it was revealed to be his school robes. Again he pointed his wand at the junction, this time muttering what sounded like two separate spells (given the pause and the two flicks of the wand) - the first mumble actually sounded remarkably similar to a cleaning spell, while the second, though too quiet to be heard, resulted in what Harry assumed was a camouflage charm. Had Harry been less biased, he would have also noticed the abnormally open, distinctly pained, and rather vulnerable expression on his face. Years of suffering had left Draco with an aged, fatigued face that required a certain degree of effort to disguise.  
  
Draco disappeared through the entrance, leaving a fuming Potter in his wake. Harry was too enraged to even follow, knowing that if he did follow the young death eater, he would have been unable to restrain himself from beating the other boy into a bruised, bleeding pulp. He absolutely abhorred the idea of having to confront one of his own classmates in a state of war, and his anger towards Malfoy, long fuelled by years of antagonism, was peaked by the fact that the bastard had forced him into exactly that situation; for as much as he hated Malfoy, he had never wanted to have to kill him. He had always suspected Malfoy to be a death eater or somehow affiliated with the Dark Arts, but it was something else entirely to have his suspicions confirmed.  
  
It took several minutes for the livid boy to compose himself to the point of functionality. When he finally emerged from the secret passage, Malfoy had disappeared beyond his sight, and he was somehow relieved that a confrontation did not have to take place tonight. He was too enraged for any altercation to end 'successfully', whatever that meant in such a situation. Still, he knew that a confrontation would have to take place eventually. . . in the near future.  
  
*  
  
Harry began scheming almost immediately and by the time he fell asleep that very night, he already had a plan, which he proceeded to execute over the following week. That weekend - the first Hogsmeade weekend - he slipped from Ron and Hermione (who were, as ever, arguing about the finer points of something stupid) to make his way to one of the sleazy, unsavory shops on the same street as the Hog's Head. Most of the merchandise was protected by a magical wall located behind a dodgy looking vendor with squinty eyes and a week's worth of facial hair.  
  
"Veritaserum," Harry demanded coldly.  
  
The vendor's eyes flickered to the scar on Harry's brow, before answering smugly, "That's a controlled substance sonny. Ah'm sorry, but Ah have nothing for yuh."  
  
Anger reared up in Harry, who had well learned a valuable lesson in self reliance after what he considered Dumbledore's betrayal during his fifth year. "You lie," he growled, whipping out his wand and a steely expression hardening his features. The Weasley twins had bought all manner of controlled substance from this vendor, including Veritaserum, and Harry fully intended to enjoy the same benefits. He had long passed the point at which he was willing to put up with shit from the likes of such dubious, second rate characters.  
  
"I suggest you reconsider your position or you WILL come out the worse for it. I have no interest in exposing you to authorities, but I WILL get what I want. I am convinced of the rightness of my actions and so have to qualms about hexing you into oblivion. Now, I think you know who I am, so now ask yourself if you really want to take me on." Harry flashed a malicious smirk of which even a Malfoy would be proud.  
  
The meaty vendor eyed him appraisingly, with the expression of one who had long ago learned to take threats in stride, despite the fact that the hard life Harry had been forced to live had taught him the ability to vocalize threats quite effectively. Finally, a small, knowing smile made its way to the vendor's lips.  
  
"Very well," the man pronounced. He promptly made his way down one of several aisles behind him. Harry watched him select a vial from one of the shelves, before returning to the counter. Holding the bottled product just out of reach, he demanded with his own smirk, "Ten galleons."  
  
Knowing he was being ripped off, but relieved to be successfully executing his plans, Harry nodded and retrieved ten galleons from his pocket, roughly pushing it towards the vendor. "Here," he said gruffly, a scowl decorating his brow.  
  
The vendor took the money and had the gall to place the vial in a paper bag and to produce a receipt before handing the potion to Harry. "Thank you for your patronage," the seedy man said cheekily; but Harry ignored him and marched out of the shop.  
  
*  
  
An innocent lie allowed him to rejoin Hermione and Ron shortly later with a minimum of inquisition. There was a certain amount of guilt about not including them in his undertaking, but he honestly felt it was something better done alone. Aside from the illegal nature of his plan, he knew that Hermione and Ron would only make what he had to do more difficult, though for contrary reasons. Harry was pretty certain that Hermione would have strong moral objections, to the point that she might threaten to go to Dumbledore to stop him. Ron, on the other hand, hated Malfoy with a zeal that would surely allow him to grossly abuse the power that Veritaserum would bestow on him, to the point that Hermione's objections would be perfectly justified. But Harry was convinced of the perfection of his plan, provided it was not compromised by the extremist positions of his two best friends. Morality be damned. Desperate times call for desperate measures.  
  
And so it came to pass that during lunch the following Friday, Harry used one of the school owls to send a forged note to Malfoy, supposedly from Professor McGonagall, 'requesting' that he come to her office after his last class, which was, incidentally, Potions.  
  
Potions found an edgy Harry Potter seated next to a certain calm and collected Draco Malfoy. For a fleeting moment, the other boy had looked positively shocked when Harry had sat himself down at the neighboring desk, though this shock was quickly replaced with a disgusted expression and a derogatory comment about free riding. For once, Harry did not respond, preferring to focus on the task at hand.  
  
The previous week Professor Snape had warned the class about this day's assignment - some asinine potion (designed to test brewing ability rather than being practically useful), a warning for which was deemed necessary by the fact that it would have to be imbibed at the end of class. Malfoy proceeded to execute the assignment perfectly, ignoring Harry in turn and doing almost all of the work. He had no idea why Potter would actually choose to sit next him, but he felt secure in his ability to cope with whatever nefarious plans the other boy was most likely trying to pursue. Busy with his own schemes, he was more than willing to ignore Scarhead and complete the potion himself (something he was used to after years of having incompetent potions partners such as Crabbe and Goyle). Besides, whatever Potter didn't touch, Potter couldn't screw up; and, in instances such as this, where he would have to be imbibing his own potion, a screw up could have quite unpleasant consequences. The potions that they tested on themselves could never actually harm them, even if misbrewed, but that didn't mean that one couldn't end up with an unintended (if temporary), say, set of donkey ears. Harry had been waiting for an entire week for this opportunity, and was thrilled that it came so conveniently located at the end of the day. Fate must really be on his side.  
  
Harry waited until Malfoy had finished the potion and was returning the leftover ingredients to the storage closet. Harry used the opportunity to fill his vial with potion, then, with unusual subtlety, emptied the bottle of Veritaserum into the cauldron. When Malfoy returned to his desk, he filled his own vial, then sat to wait for Snape's instructions to imbibe the oily, dark orange substance.  
  
"So Malfoy, this gonna poison me?," Harry said nastily, the knowledge that he would momentarily have the upper hand allowing him to release the iron grip of restraint that he had placed on his anger.  
  
"Not unless you fucked with it in my absence," Malfoy retorted coolly, without even batting an eyelid, or even turning to face his partner. His words made Harry want to hex himself for having such a big mouth, but he didn't let his sudden discomfort show on his face, though had Malfoy been paying more attention, he would have noticed the sudden tension in Harry's body.  
  
"Don't you even try to blame this potion on me. It's all your work."  
  
"I know. That's why it's perfect," Malfoy drawled, finally turning towards Harry to smirk at him. Harry glared back, but was saved from having to come up with a retort by Professor Snape.  
  
"Attention!" Then, with a twisted sneer, followed by a pointed look at Neville, "Time to find out who knows how to follow instructions and whose incompetence deserves punishment. Bottoms up, class!"  
  
Shooting Malfoy what he assumed was a credible look of suspicion, Harry brought his vial to his lips and quickly emptied it. He blinked, held his arm out, and watched the skin turn a rather healthy color purple. A quick glance around the room revealed a number of other students of various shades of purple, and Professor Snape was already striding towards Longbottom and Lavender (Neville's distinctly displeased lab partner), both of which were sporting pigmentation of a surprisingly ugly shade of light blue. He turned towards Malfoy. "Well? Too prissy to be seen in purple?"  
  
Malfoy raised an eyebrow on his impassive face. There was an uneasy feeling in his stomach, warning him about something, but he didn't know what and it wasn't enough to dissuade him from 'normal' behavior. Something had been not quite right on this day, his mind flitting to the unexpected and slightly suspicious letter he had received at the end of lunch period. He forced himself back to the here and now. His eyes never left Potters', as he brought his own vial to his lips, then downed its contents. He closed his eyes for a moment as a foreign, almost liberating feeling washed through him, then opened them again to witness his pale skin to a rich violet hue, so dark he almost looked black. The color was fantastic, providing a sharp contrast to his platinum hair, and creating at least one striking figure amongst the sea of ridiculous looking students. Harry scowled at him, annoyed by the arrogant git's ability to look good even when purple and by the fact that someone so undeserving should be blessed with such beauty. If only he could look so good. . .  
  
Malfoy smirked at him, as though knowing exactly what was going through the messy haired boy's mind, which he did. It was, after all, what everyone always thought. Casually, arrogantly, he purred, "So, Potter, which is it? Do you want to be me or do you want to fuck me?"  
  
Harry felt himself flush, though it was an effect that remained hidden under his new, colorful tan. His embarrassment, however, was quickly replaced with rage. "You're a revolting piece of shit Malfoy. I would rather die than be you and I wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole," he hissed viciously, pouring his supreme disgust into every word.  
  
Draco forced himself not to react to the vehemence and conviction in Potter's words, something that was (and had almost always been) a second nature to the Slytherin. He was a little surprised, as he always was when confronted by the extremely rare proof that words held any power over him, but he was not surprised that such proof would be proffered by Potter - the other boy seemed to specialize in exposing his weaknesses. But Potter would get no satisfaction from this victory. His eyes flicked to Snape, who had just dismissed the class with a reminder of the homework assigned earlier in the period.  
  
"Well, Potter," Malfoy snapped irritably. "It's been a total horror, as always. Now, if you'll excuse me, or even if you don't, I have about a million better places to be." He swiftly scooped up his bookbag and quickly strode from the classroom. Harry took the time to make his excuses to Ron and Hermione, then hastily followed Malfoy's retreating form in the direction of the Slytherin dorms. He didn't appear to be interacting with his housemates, preferring to listen disinterestedly. Goyle prodded him once or twice to receive confirmation of some stupidity that had left his mouth - though, in truth, neither Goyle nor Crabbe was a stupid as they generally came across as. It was more that they lacked the social graces generally associated with Slytherin.  
  
A nefarious smile flitted across Harry's face as he saw Malfoy break away from the rest of the purple Slytherin group and turn down a passage capable of taking him to Professor McGonagall's office. He followed the blond boy, as inconspicuously as possible, but it mattered not. Malfoy possessed an excellent instinct, if not the confidence to capitalize on it. He spun around, wand brandished, with an absolutely frightening look displayed on his features. "If I were you, I would seriously consider explaining yourself."  
  
Harry blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of his enemy's reflexes, but he managed to retain his cool. Calmly, and expressionlessly, he said, "I'm the one who sent that owl. I wanted to speak to you alone."  
  
Malfoy's eyes narrowed with hostility and suspicion. "About a what?," he growled.  
  
"Could we?," Harry asked, gesturing to indicate the door of one of the many unused rooms in Hogwarts. Malfoy's instincts screamed at him to hex Harry to oblivion, to run like the wind, to. . . he forced himself from that train of thought. Despite their animosity, Malfoy trusted Harry, in the sense that he trusted the Potter to be predictable, made so by the fact that people who acted according to certain codes of conduct were always made so. And Draco honestly believed, if somewhat foolishly, that Harry could be relied upon to behave honorably. So he squashed his instincts, nodded to his companion, returned his wand to the folds of his robe, and stepped through the nearby doorway. He took a quick, suspicious glance around before turning towards Harry in time to catch him muttering a locking spell on the door. An extreme feeling of alarm suddenly screamed through him, and his hand instantly grabbed for his wand. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I'm such a fool. But before he could bring his wand up to point it towards the threat, Harry hit him with a powerful uppercut and he stumbled backwards. He tried to hex his attacker, but his wand was seized from his grasp and he was violently shoved against the wall, his skull rebounding with a sickening crack.  
  
Malfoy crumbled to the ground, his head spinning, and despondency overcoming him. His skill lay with his wand and his wits, not with his physical prowess. He knew some defensive moves, but his frail body was no match for Harry's years of yard work and natural fortitude. He stood no chance in such a confrontation as this. Dizzy and disarmed, he glared up at Potter, despite the pang of fear brought on less from being in such a powerless situation than from Potter's unpredictable behavior. There was a pause in which they glared hatefully at each other, Harry's wand unwaveringly angled down at his chest. "Potter," Malfoy hissed dangerously. "Your move, in case you hadn't noticed."  
  
"Oh, I noticed," he responded scathingly, his absolute loathing towards the other boy making his uncharacteristic behavior easier than he might have usually expected. "I was just savoring the moment before I squash you like a bug."  
  
Malfoy kept tight reign on his unease. "What are you going to do Potter? Torture me?" A smirk that he didn't feel flashed across his face.  
  
"Actually, I just have a few questions." The expression on Harry's usually expressive face was both strange and disturbing, but again, Malfoy didn't let on.  
  
"Shoot," Malfoy mocked, repositioning himself on the floor in such a way that he exuded relaxation and confidence.  
  
Harry's disturbing expression became more so as it was joined by an unfriendly smile. "Are you a death eater?," he demanded with false sweetness.  
  
"Yes." Harry was treated to an expression of absolute horror as realization hit Draco, the full implications of which were enough to make his blood run cold. Even a credible death threat could not have struck such fear into his heart, creating an eerily attractive paling effect on his violet skin. Even Harry was surprised by the depth of emotion on his enemy's perpetually composed face, for he could not have understood the extent to which Draco's entire existence was one of deception. More than the fact that he deceived all those around him, and that his life depended on such deceptions, his very comprehension of self was a charade.  
  
Draco desperately scrambled to his feet, not caring if there was a wand aimed at his chest. He tried to launch himself at Harry, but Harry quickly cast a body binding spell and Draco collapsed onto the floor again. Harry bent down and shoved him against the wall, then punched him in the mouth. Inches from the violet face, he hissed. "You fucking bastard."  
  
He backed off and stood up, still glaring at the other boy. The familiar pain had, however, jolted Draco back from his fear induced desperation, and his features had once again calmed. The precariousness of his situation was obvious to him, and only an incredible skilled and lucky manipulation of the conversation would save him from having to answer the wrong questions. He tongued the blood running from his busted lip and forced himself to sneer. "Well, I guess you've found me out. What are you going to do about it, oh Great and All knowing Potter?"  
  
Harry blinked at the sudden about face, then he sneered back. "What do you think you deserve?"  
  
"Death." Okay; well, wouldn't have been my first choice of responses, but could've been worse. Harry face, unused to having to hide its feelings, revealed surprise at his response. But it was quickly replaced with its former hostility. "Finally, something we agree on."  
  
"Kill me then, Potter." Stall, stall, stall. Merlin, please don't ask any more questions. Actually, Harry looked like he really did want to kill him. "Come on then. I fucking dare you, you parentless Mudblood loving piece of shit." Death would be preferable to revealing certain secrets, better than what Voldemort would do to him.  
  
Harry knew he wouldn't kill Malfoy. But he was suddenly confronted with what he should do; he'd gotten the confession he wanted, but he didn't feel quite ready to march Malfoy to Dumbledore's office. Something was nagging at him, his instincts telling him that something wasn't right. Would Malfoy know something that Snape (and, therefore, the Order) didn't? His eyes narrowed. Despite his only mediocre grades, Harry did possess a certain practical astuteness.  
  
"You're hiding something, I can tell. What is it you don't want me to know?"  
  
Malfoy's eyes widened in horror and he gagged in his effort to keep the words in. But the spell forced him to choke out, "I'm. . . ungh. . . spying on. . gugh. . . Volde. . . mort."  
  
Deathly silence. Harry was so shocked that his expression went blank and Draco hung his head the best he could with a spell bound body. The effects of Snape's purpling potion were beginning to fade, but this was little cause for relief. Draco's face was one of a man condemned to death. Or perhaps one of a man already dead - provided the man had died most unhappily. Misery was etched over his every feature, though it did not look so foreign there as one might have suspected.  
  
Harry was too shocked to speak, and Draco too wretched; and so the silence stretched. Finally, it was broken by a strained, defeated voice. "Please. . . You've got what you want from me."  
  
A small part of his mind was further amazed to hear Malfoy say the word please, and it took him a moment to register the unspoken request. Then it took him another moment to react, though he was having a distinctly difficult time wrapping his mind around what Malfoy had told him. Hesitantly, numbly, unthinkingly, he raised his wand and pointed it at the pitiful wreck that had once been the arrogant Draco Malfoy. He muttered the words necessary to end the spell, and Malfoy slumped forwards before scrambling shakily to his feet.  
  
He avoided Harry's watchful eyes, wiping the blood from his lip, straightening his clothes, and flattening back his hair. Finally he looked expressionlessly at Harry, his hand outstretched, though still trembling subtly. Hoarsely, "My wand."  
  
With some hesitation, Harry reached into his robes and retrieved Malfoy's wand. Malfoy took it, then used it to unlock the door. Without a look back, he strode through the door. Finally moved from his shell shocked state, Harry followed him out, then called, "Wait!"  
  
Malfoy whipped around, fury etched on his face. The violet was almost gone. "Fuck you Potter," he growled. "You're no better than Voldemort. No better than my. . . my father. You. . . you violated me." He looked for a moment as if he might either cry or be sick, but his voice remained dangerous. "How can you even think I'd have anything to say to you now?" He turned away and quickly walked down the corridor, throwing back a last, falsely indifferent line to the reeling Harry. "Stay away from me, Potter." 


	2. The Aftermath and New Groundwork

I own nothing, I would appreciate reviews, I warn of future slash and unsavory revelations.  
  
Chapter 2: The Aftermath and the New Groundwork  
  
"When the path's unclear. . . call the man, he's needed here."  
- Celine Dion, Call the Man  
  
Harry's mind was a muddle as he returned to the Gryffindor dorms. Part of him still couldn't come to grips with what he had learned, it was just too. . . unbelievable. And yet another part of him, the part that had long tried to maintain its denial of the presence of actual death eaters at Hogwarts, was rejoicing at the refutation of something it could never quite accept. In other words, Harry felt split in two and he didn't know how to feel or to react. What he did know is that he felt a rather nauseating wave of guilt when he thought of what he had done, though he wasn't entirely sure why. He'd been blinded somewhat by his anger and he hadn't thought of his actions the way Malfoy had. The problem was that Malfoy was right. Tricking someone into taking Veritaserum, stripping them of their free will, forcing them to reveal their innermost secrets. . . how different was his behavior from that of, say, Voldemort casting the Imperius on an unwitting victim? But more than the logic that argued the wrongness of his actions, it was Malfoy's tortured words, his human pain, his awkward attempt to deny defeat, that cut to Harry's soul and made him want to weep, "What have I done? What have I done?"  
  
He tried to push the encounter out of his mind (though it was impossible) by telling himself that Malfoy was a complete prick, bringing his fate upon himself - his innocence made his typically maliciously behavior forgivable, but was not (or shouldn't be) enough to bring guilt down upon Harry's conscience. Harry had behaved perfectly understandably. . . hadn't he?  
  
Malfoy's stricken voice echoed through his mind. "You're no better than Voldemort. No better than my. . . my father. You. . . you violated me." He mumbled the password to the fat lady, then stumbled into the Gryffindor common rooms, confused, wracked with guilt, and on the verge of throwing up. A wave of relief washed over him upon seeing Hermione, though there was no sigh of Ron. But Hermione would make it all right. . . right?  
  
A number of people noticed something wrong with Harry - the expression on his open face was more than enough to give it away - but Hermione was the one who rushed to him and herded him to her single Prefect's room. He collapsed on her bed, his elbows resting on his knees and his head cradled in his hands.  
  
"I've really fucked up this time," he moaned. He was beginning to see a definite correlation between ignorance and seriously fucking up.  
  
Hermione was both concerned and dumbfounded. What the hell had happened in the forty minutes since leaving Potions? "What happened?"  
  
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Malfoy's defeated voice ricocheted through his mind once again. "You. . . you violated me." And this time it was accompanied by an image of the abused, condemned expression on his face after being forced to confess his deepest secret. He hadn't really cared that Harry had forced him to admit to being a death eater, but it had shattered him to have to tell him that he was a spy. He hadn't even asked Harry to keep his secret, though it was one that he clearly thought could make or break him. Why? Harry couldn't fathom the other boy's reasoning, if indeed he even had any, but he suddenly realized that he once again held Malfoy's - Draco's - fate in his hands. It was. . . a second chance, wasn't it? Harry wanted desperately to confess, to be absolved, but was seized by the need to keep Malfoy's secret, if only because it was the right thing to do, if only to appease his guilt. He could not betray Malfoy, not again, whether his confidence had been requested or not. He couldn't betray Malfoy because Malfoy had trusted him to act upstandingly. Maybe he still did, maybe that was why he didn't ask for him to keep his secret.  
  
"I've hurt someone, as deeply as is possible, I think. . . I thought this person deserved it, but I was wrong." Harry rubbed his eyes, then began rubbing his temples.  
  
"What did you do?," Hermione asked with trepidation.  
  
"I. . . I can't tell you. Please don't ask me to. Please. It would only. . . compound my mistake. I would only. . . hurt him more. I would. . . betray him again." His words were coming with difficulty, and he hoped desperately that Hermione would understand. She looked at him anxiously, uneasily, but she seemed willing to accept his answer - for now. She knew, had Ron been there, that he wouldn't have let Harry off so easy. But she had a view of the world not so black and white as Harry's and Ron's; and she knew that just because she was one of his best friends, she was not owed the entire truth. Especially not from Harry, who had responsibilities far beyond herself, and Ron. Some things were simply not one's to tell.  
  
So she nodded. "Don't tell me if it's not right," she soothed. "Not if won't help. Not if it'll only make it worse." Harry pulled her towards him and held her tightly; she wrapped her arms around him and let her shirt muffle his sobs, the insanity and stress finally proving too much. His anger at discovering that Malfoy was a death eater had granted him the unnatural calm required for the flawless execution of his plan, but its unexpected conclusion had released the frustration of the last ten days as well as adding its own emotional turmoil. All his misery snowballed, as emotions tend to, until he could on longer differentiate between the guilt he felt regarding Malfoy, the anger he (still) felt towards Dumbledore, the fear and hatred he felt towards Voldemort, and the loneliness and desperation he felt in general.  
  
But his tears finally faded to sniffles, and then to silence. "Are you okay, Harry?," Hermoine finally ventured.  
  
With a final snivel, he pulled away and nodded. He even gave her a small smile of reassurance. He was still confused, but he did feel better. The guilt was not so oppressive, his anger not so demanding, and the need to burst virtually gone; unclouding his mind and leaving it with a strong desire to mull over the days events. His emotions had demanded immediate attention, but now that their assault had abated, he was free to consider, rationally, what he had been told.  
  
He stood and forced himself to take his leave of Hermione before his mind full too deeply into thought. "I. . . I need some time to think. . . I'm sorry about my, uh, break down."  
  
Hermione responded to his weak smile and nervous laugh with a genuinely affectionate one. "It's okay, we're all entitled, especially now. Especially you." Obviously seeing his anxiousness to leave, she added playfully, "Go sort yourself out, then."  
  
Struck by how understanding Hermione could be, he quickly swept her into a hug. "Thanks, Herm. You're a good friend." And it was true. Maturity had softened some of her edges, turning her extensive knowledge into wisdom, and her righteousness into compassion. As impressive as she was as a girl, she was even more so as a burgeoning woman and her untapped potential was practically tangible.  
  
Harry disappeared from Hermione's room and went to his dorm room to be alone - dinner was fast approaching and it was unlikely that any of his roommates would be there. He lay on the bed and tried to sort his thoughts: Malfoy was a spy. Since when? The two enemies had had very little interaction so far that year, but, in truth, there had been very little interaction between them during fifth year too. Did that mean he'd been a spy for a year? He was spying for Dumbledore, right? There was a flare of anger to discover yet another secret he had not been let in on. Except. . . Malfoy's dislike for the Headmaster was obvious. Was it an act? Maybe Dumbledore didn't know - surely after going to such lengths to protect Harry, he wouldn't simply let another student place himself in such extreme peril. Would he? Did Snape know? Is that why he liked Malfoy so much? Was there really a need for two spies? What did Malfoy know?  
  
Damn. A little guiltily, he wished he'd asked Malfoy more questions; but the guilt was replaced at anger and frustration towards the Headmaster. He wanted to know what was going on, and, curiosity aside, he needed to know. It's not like keeping him in the dark increased the odds of either him or others surviving the war. In fact, it almost certainly decreased the odds of survival. Dammit, he needed to know what was going on. And Malfoy held the answers that Dumbledore and the rest of the Order were still unwilling to tell him. Despite the last years fiasco, they still hadn't gotten it through their thick skulls that what he didn't know could kill him - and them.  
  
A knot of dread curled in his stomach. He knew what he had to do - he had to have a long talk with Malfoy. Had to convince him to help him, to tell him what he knew, and he had to do this without the Veritaserum. After what he had done to the other boy. . . This was not going to be pretty. Indeed, it promised to be downright ugly.  
  
*  
  
Malfoy wasn't at dinner either. He felt numb, more so than usual. It wasn't his normal detachment from his emotions, a detachment that let him react as he needed to, as opposed to how he wanted to. No, this numbness was more like some fantastic weight had been laid across his mind, repressing his emotions until they could not be recognized amidst the current emptiness of that mind. His usually racing thoughts had slowed to almost nothing. The sense of doom was all consuming.  
  
He didn't know if Harry would tell or not, but he hardly thought it mattered. Harry was trouble - trouble followed him like a puppy and clung to him like a parasite. It was inevitable that Draco would be dragged into Harry's maelstrom of danger. As if he didn't constantly exist in a state of immense danger anyway. Merlin, he was going to die.  
  
Actually, the idea didn't terrify him altogether that much. He'd been living with the threat of being killed for a long time now, and living in fear for even longer. And he thought his odds of surviving the War to be particularly poor. Death might even be a comfort. . . though he certainly wasn't going to make it easy for those bastards (whichever bastards it turned out to be). There was nothing he could do except go on, really. What was a little more fear, eh? A little more pressure. . . It wasn't like he was going to break. Right?  
  
Curled up on his bed, arms wrapped around his bony body, he sighed deeply. He wouldn't just lie down and die, he would go out fighting. He wasn't weak, he wasn't a coward, he would fucking give them hell. They would pay for making him suffer, for trying to kill him, for turning his whole world into a nightmare. For turning the whole world into a nightmare.  
  
Draco stood weakly. The show must go on. Always, on and on. . . He looked in the mirror, touching the scab on his soft lip. Damn Potter and his meddlesome ways. Oh well, time for a shower.  
  
*  
  
Harry's first opportunity to talk to Malfoy came the next morning at breakfast. He had come down early, having endured a long, restless night. There was a sparse collection of younger years sitting around and, surprisingly, Dean.  
  
"Yo, Dean, whattup?" Upon closer examination, he added, "You look like shit, mate. Maybe you should go back to bed."  
  
"Well, ah feel like shit too. . . Ah have a hangover something awful. Ah have a terrible time sleeping after drinking so much. That firewhiskey messes with my system bad time." His head was propped up by his hands, and he was looking despondently and slightly nauseatingly at a bowl of porridge between his elbows.  
  
"Jeez. . . Last night a good time then?," Harry asked, despite the distinct impression that this was not the case. Dean confirmed his suspicions by shaking his head. "Lavender dumped me."  
  
"I'm sorry." Harry tried to sound sincere, feeling guilty that he couldn't bring himself to care more. He gave Dean's shoulder a squeeze. "Why?"  
  
"She said all ah ever wanted to do was fool around." It required a valiant effort on Harry's part to keep a straight face, but somehow he managed. He had just thought of a few, somewhat comforting words to impart, when Malfoy briskly strutted into the Great Hall. He looked impeccable, as though entirely unperturbed by the previous day's events; and he was oblivious to Harry's gaze. In fact, for the first time ever perhaps, Harry was actually looking at the blond, pale boy - not glaring, not channeling hatred through his eyes, but observing, studying, admiring. He was faintly disgusted with himself for being able to find anything admirable in Malfoy, but he noticed his finer points nonetheless. His general unflappability was certainly one of them. Or maybe, Harry suggested to himself unconvincingly, he was just an unfeeling bastard.  
  
"God, I hate that prick," Dean said, saving Harry from any more unwanted observation of Malfoy's positive traits. Dean's eyes had followed Harry's line of sight, allowing him to willingly supply Harry with reminders of Malfoy's unsavory side. Dean then proceeded to recount some tale of the Sytherin's nefarious behavior the day before in Arithmancy (which Dean did not take, calling forth the question of how many people this story had come through before reaching him). Apparently Malfoy, who, along with Granger, was the top of the class, had humiliated some Hufflepuff by scathingly demolishing the presentation he had had to give. Interestingly, however, the tale ended with the fact that his actions had really pissed off one Pansy Parkinson.  
  
Harry was confused. Still watching Malfoy's confident form, he asked, "Why would Pansy care?"  
  
Dean actually looked excited (underneath the ill look) at the question. Unfortunately, it was the excitement of a gossip who'd found someone completely out of the loop. "Don't you know? Pansy's practically going out with him!"  
  
"What? With the Hufflepuff? I thought she was going out with Draco." Now he was really confused; but this time Dean looked at him as if he was completely retarded.  
  
"Harry, don't you notice anything? Those two haven't been going out for. . . like a year and a half or something." Harry wasn't surprised by his lack of awareness, really. He'd had hardly interaction with the Slytherins during the previous year.  
  
"Oh. . . So, who's Draco going out with now then?"  
  
Dean considered the question. "Actually, I don't think he's ever gone out with anyone else."  
  
"Ha. He's not such a ladykiller as he thinks." There was definitely some satisfaction in that thought.  
  
Dean considered this for so long that Harry thought the topic dropped. "I don't know. The girls seem to think he could have anyone he wants. Their theory is that he won't have, uh, liaisons was their word, with anyone in the school. . . Disturbingly, I remember him setting a bunch of us straight about sex before a DADA class back in third year. Even back then he knew what he was talking about."  
  
Harry found this somewhat unsettling. "Okay, well, I think I've heard all I want about Malfoy's sex life. Or lack thereof."  
  
"I agree," Dean said heartily, with an expression on his face even sicker than before, the topic having taken some toll.  
  
Seeing Malfoy take his leave from the few individuals at the Slytherin table (the Slytherins had a reputation for partying particularly hard, and so were rarely present for the Saturday and Sunday breakfasts), Harry bid Dean farewell and followed the blond towards the hallway.  
  
Malfoy was doing a superb job of ignoring his Gryffindor nemesis, forcing Harry to call out, "Malfoy!"  
  
Malfoy froze, then slowly turned around, a guarded expression on his aristocratic face. "Potter."  
  
Shit, shit, shit. Harry could already tell this wasn't going to go well. "I need to talk to you."  
  
"I doubt it. And even if you do, what could possibly make you think I would talk to you?"  
  
"Well, you talking to me now, aren't you?"  
  
Malfoy arched a perfect eyebrow. "Indeed I am. So, I must have given you the talk you needed." He spun on his heal and strode off.  
  
"Wait!" He ran after the blond and made the mistake of grabbing his arm. Malfoy snapped his arm away and whipped around to face him with a deadly glare. His grey eyes flashed dangerously. "I'm serious! I need to talk to you."  
  
"And don't you think I was serious when I told you to stay away from me?," the other boy growled. The menace and hatred was so intense it was practically palpable, so intense that Harry was taken aback, though he could hardly have expected better. There was a long pause as Harry's muddled brain tried to find a way to a way past Malfoy's hostility. Unfortunately, his brain was unable to supply a single thing.  
  
Malfoy released a tired, and surprisingly genuine sigh, then continued, "Potter, I have absolutely nothing to say to you. And I care even less to watch you gape at me like a goldfish trying to find something intelligent to say. Go back to getting yourself in trouble and leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with you. I thought you'd be happy, you hypocrite."  
  
He headed off down the hallway again, but all Harry could muster as a response was a "Fuck you, Malfoy!"  
  
"Eloquent as always, Potter," Malfoy threw back, without breaking stride or turning his head.  
  
*  
  
Harry did feel like a hypocrite, but it didn't stop him from trying to corner Malfoy again. He felt certain that the Slytherin held the key to the vault of valuable knowledge, and he wasn't going to let a few harsh words and his own pride keep him from what he wanted and needed. He tried to talk to Malfoy again after DADA, but all he got for his trouble was a short lived muting hex. When he sent him an owl during dinner, the parchment was incinerated and its request ignored.  
  
Harry's anger was beginning to outweigh his guilt. He HAD to talk to Malfoy, and he wasn't going to let something as small as Malfoy's unwillingness get in his way. He didn't need to resort to Veritaserum or violence to get the pale toothpick to talk to him. He just had to wait until the right moment. . . until he was too vulnerable not to talk. And Harry had a very good idea as to when that would be. 


	3. Confrontation and the Deal

Warning: Bad language. (Slash eventually, but not this chapter.)  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me.  
  
Readers: Thanks for reviewing! More always welcome!  
  
Chapter 3: Confrontation and the Deal  
  
"You'll never live long enough to undo everything they've done to you."  
  
- Ani DiFranco, 'Tis of Thee  
  
Harry stayed up until one am the next night - a Tuesday. He did so again the following night, and the night after that. During the days, Malfoy mostly ignored him. The only skirmish that took place was, in fact, provoked by Ron, who got a bloody nose (from Goyle) and a severe ego lashing (from Malfoy) for his troubles. Harry had only intervened to pull Ron away before he either got punched again or else punished by Snape, who had just blown into the potion's room where the fight had broken out. Somehow, he had become painfully aware that just about every fight in the last year between the Malfoy trio and his trio had been incited by Ron. When he asked Hermione to deny his observation, she couldn't. Whatever unresolved emotions there were between her and Ron, she could not deny the more fixed aspects of his character. Of the three of them, Ron had changed the least in their years at Hogwarts, which was both a good and a bad thing.  
  
Around midnight on the fourth night (Friday), his ability to survive on limited sleep finally beginning to wear thin, he finally saw what he was looking for: a moving label sporting the name D. Malfoy. He watched with grim satisfaction as the label made its way from the Slytherin dorms to the secret passage to Hogsmeade. When he saw it suddenly disappear, he made his own way to the secret passage wrapped in his invisibility cloak. Once there, he turned his wand light and sat down for a long wait.  
  
Inevitably, he dozed off, only to be awaken hours later by a loud crack (sounding very much like someone apparating) and an "ooph!". Harry scrambled to his feet, but he couldn't see a single thing in the pitch black; however, the problem was soon solved by a few words from Malfoy, muttered in a strained voice. A pale blue ball of light appeared from his wavering wand, illuminating him where he lay on the ground, and then levitated up a few feet to hover above him. This feat accomplished, his arm gave into gravity and collapsed, returning to the crumpled, shaking body. His eyes were tightly shut and his jaw clenched. And his skin looked quite dirty.  
  
Harry was suddenly very concerned. This was definitely not what he had been expecting, and the fact that Malfoy's state had him worried was a sure sign of just how disturbing the other boy's state appeared to be. Harry pushed down his hood and pushed back the rest of the cloak past his shoulders so that it hung down his back, exposing almost all of his body.  
  
"Malfoy?" His whispering voice was void of its usual hostility, tainted instead with unease. But when Malfoy failed to react, he bent down and reached a hesitant hand towards a trembling shoulder. Upon contact, Malfoy's entire body lurched away, his eyes flying open frantically, and he clambered on hands and knees towards the wall, chest heaving.  
  
"Shit, Malfoy!" Harry cried in surprise. What the hell?  
  
After several long seconds, awareness replaced Malfoy's crazed look. Some attempt was made to erect his emotionless mask, but he gave up in favor of cradling his head between his knees (a position that buffered his shaking) and a faint, "Fuck you, Potter." But his voice was exhausted, and held no enmity. Harry frowned, then noticed something - his hand was sticky. He held it close to his face, then up to the pale blue light.  
  
"Is this. . . blood?" Malfoy made no sign of having heard, though Harry was pretty sure he had. And he was pretty sure that it was blood on his hand, despite the poor lighting. "Malfoy. . . that's blood on your face, isn't it?"  
  
His annoyance at Malfoy's obstinate silence began to outstrip his concern. He stood up and started down the tunnel, with a "Fine, you stubborn mule. I'm going to go get Madam Pompfrey."  
  
There was a long moment of him retreating in which he thought Malfoy would just let him go; but then his ears picked it up. A croak. "Wait."  
  
Harry turned and walked back towards the Slytherin, who finally raised his expressionless, blood and bruise darkened face. Harry crouched next to him, more than a little unnerved by the vacant eyes that made contact with him. "Don't tell Pompfrey," he added hoarsely, neither a demand nor an entreaty.  
  
"Then let me have a look," Harry replied, reaching a hand towards the bleeding gash embedded in Malfoy's hairline. But Malfoy pulled his head away, and the grip around his knees tightened perceptively. "I can take care of my self," he snapped, though it lacked anything beyond mild irritation.  
  
"Oh yeah? How?," Harry retorted.  
  
Draco glared at him for making him do this in front of him, but he simply hadn't the strength at the moment to do what it would require to get away from (or do away with) the Gryffindor hero. He was exhausted and in a fair amount of pain, and he was still loosing blood. His mind felt fuzzy after hours of what was essentially torture, and he was having difficulty thinking past the need to heal himself. As much as he hated to show weakness, he was finding it difficult to care in his present situation. Harry already knew enough to damn him twice over.  
  
So he unfolded himself so that he sat cross legged, a grimace of pain flicking across his face and his limbs freed to resume their trembling. With closed eyes he remained like this, sporting a surprisingly calm expression. Harry frowned at him, distinctly reminded of Muggle meditation. He was about to question Malfoy when the blond placed his hands on either side of his face and mumbled, "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla."  
  
The caking blood did not disappear, but the bruises on his face did, and Harry was willing to bet that the gash had healed too. He watched Malfoy slip his hands into his robe and, after a moment of what appeared to be fumbling, spoke the words again. When he pulled his hands out of his robes, now coated in blood, Harry's queasiness increasing as the extent of Malfoy's injuries became apparent. Malfoy pulled up his trouser legs to reveal more torn, bleeding flesh; but he placed a hand on each calf and healed them too. He followed up by healing each arm with the other arm's hand. The shaking, however, was getting worse.  
  
"Turn around."  
  
Harry started. He had been so captivated by watching Malfoy heal himself that the other boy's voice took him completely by surprise. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"  
  
The expression on Malfoy's face was almost identical to the one it had held when he had uttered those haunting words five days ago. Still, it was only there for a split second, hardly long enough to register, before again being replaced with indifference. But even the wizarding world's best actor couldn't keep the note of resigned exhaustion from his words. "So that I may keep my dignity in this at least."  
  
Harry felt sympathy pull at his heart - something he had once, only days ago, never thought possible of a Malfoy. So he turned to face away as Malfoy awkwardly hauled himself to his feet, then reached both hands into his pants to heal the wounds there. For while there was much of Draco that was not what it seemed, he was proud, if in his own shameless way. Indeed, it almost seemed as if his sense of self worth came from his pride, and not the other way around; for no matter how base his action, no matter how low he stooped, he was always proud of himself, and he was proud because it was bloody hard to do what he did, and to be who he was. So he would fight for himself if no one would fight for him, and he would fight alone if no one would fight beside him. He would use others shamelessly (and often deservedly), as they thought they used him. And it was his pride that let him do this - that gave him the right to also be a user (when he could), and not merely the used.  
  
After a quiet moment, Harry turned back and looked at the thin, shaking figure that held itself up against the wall, breathing heavily. He moved towards him to help him, but the pale boy held out a hand to stop him. "Know any cleaning spells, Potter?"  
  
Slowly, Harry nodded, though in all honesty, he wasn't altogether that sure he did. "Well, make yourself useful and lay one on me."  
  
Harry almost smiled. The hostility had not resurfaced, but the voice had definitely sounded more like the Malfoy he knew and. . . hated. Though he was having some difficulty getting in touch with that hatred at the moment. He raised his wand, considered the spell for a moment, then uttered the words that came to mind. To his surprise (though Malfoy seemed unruffled), the spell worked and the dried blood disappeared from Malfoy's face, hands, and, presumably, the rest of his body. Such cleaning spells did not have the deep cleaning effect of a shower, and were often unable to completely do away with smell, but they made all the difference between being filthy and being able to pass oneself off as clean.  
  
Malfoy inspected his hands for a moment, then raised them to feel for blood on his face. When satisfied that the spell had worked well enough, he began to limp heavily past Harry and towards Hogwarts proper, while using the wall as a support.  
  
"Here, let me help."  
  
Malfoy tried to ward him off, but he had neither the strength nor will to do it effectively; and so became as tense as steel when Harry wrapped an arm around his waste, and pulled his arm around his broad shoulders. It was a position that worked because the Malfoy had about two inches on Harry (two inches of leg, really), while Harry had a fair amount of bulk on the hard, scrawny body he supported. With an annoyed sigh, Malfoy let Harry help him, and even found some relief from his aching pains.  
  
"Why are you shaking?"  
  
"Why do you think, Potter?," he replied sharply. Harry thought of Neville, of how he had continued to jerk and twitch even after the Cruciatus curse had been lifted. Then he thought of his own encounter with that horrible pain. And then he recalled noting Malfoy's trembling the first time he had seen him in this passage.  
  
"Cruciatus?" Malfoy didn't respond, eyes fixed straight ahead, but Harry knew he was right.  
  
At the end of the passage, Harry allowed Malfoy to untangle himself, then watched as he removed his death eater garb, and replaced it with the Slytherin robes that were again found balled up on the floor. Then he muttered his own cleaning spell (a strong one meant for clothes and floors, not living beings), followed by the camouflaging spell that hid the death eater robes where the Slytherin ones had just been.  
  
Once they had made their way to the Great Hall, Malfoy finally spoke again. "I'll take my leave of you here, Potter."  
  
Harry shook his head. "No way. I'm going to see you to your dorms."  
  
With a long suffering sigh, "I'm not going to the dorms."  
  
"Where are you going, then?," Harry asked suspiciously, eyes narrowed.  
  
"Stop looking at me like that," Malfoy snapped back, despite the fact that he wasn't even facing the green eyed boy. "I'm just going to the kitchens to get something to calm the shakes."  
  
"Fine. I'm going with."  
  
Malfoy just nodded, letting Harry again take up his place supporting his weight, and they made their way to the kitchens. At the door he disengaged himself from Harry and pushed his way past the heavy door.  
  
"Master Draco! Dobby so happy to see! So relieved! Was so frightened! Dobby didn't want to have to go to Headmaster and tell him you hadn't come back!" Harry followed Malfoy in time to see Dobby rush at the blond and wrap himself around his legs. But on seeing Harry, his face contorted to an almost comical combination of terror and pleasure. "Master Harry! Dobby. . . uh, so great you are here!" He looked anxiously at Draco, then back at Harry, then again at Draco.  
  
Harry looked at Malfoy with some confusion, a confusion that mutated into surprise upon seeing a faint smile tug at the thin lips. "It's okay, Dobby. Potter knows. . . a little anyway."  
  
Joy flooded Dobby's face. "So good! Dobby so happy! Dobby told you Master Harry could help!"  
  
Malfoy's face returned to its cold, empty state; he took a seat with a wince. "That's still to be seen."  
  
Dobby nodded enthusiastically, unaffected by Malfoy's hard tone. He rushed off, and Harry took a seat opposite Malfoy. He smirked, though not anywhere near Malfoy's standard. "So I can help, can I? What, pray tell, can I help you with?"  
  
Malfoy glared at him. He wanted to shout at the Gryffindor that Harry's involvement in his affairs could prove nothing but disastrous. He had, however, finally accepted that Harry wasn't going to drop it. So, given Potter's involvement, shouldn't he try to work the situation to his advantage? If that was even possible. . .  
  
After a long pause, he made his move. "Tell you what, Potter. I'll make you a deal. For each question I answer, you must answer one of mine. If you should choose to accept, I will have to add the stipulation that, given the nature of the questions you are sure to ask, nothing is out of bounds."  
  
Harry took a long, evaluating look at the still trembling Slytherin in front of him. Dobby arrived and placed a steaming cup of something in front of Malfoy. "Why should I trust you?"  
  
"Fuck you, Potter," Malfoy hissed with such menace that Dobby scurried away. "If you don't trust me to speak the truth, then fuck off and leave me alone."  
  
Harry glared back, just for appearances, but he was mentally kicking himself. He was the one who had cornered Malfoy to see if he could get some willing answers out of him. So he backed down, though not too obviously. "Fine. But you answer first. How can I help you?"  
  
"I haven't a fucking clue. Dobby said you could help, not me. I think you're an interfering prat whose involvement in my affairs will most likely prove fatal. For me. But maybe for you too."  
  
"That's no answer!"  
  
"Yes, it is. Unsurprisingly, you just asked the wrong question. My turn. Why hasn't Dumbledore acted on Weasley's information and busted my father?"  
  
Harry's eyebrows shot up. Malfoy's question told him more than his answer had, but now he was completely dumbfounded. "Ron?," he choked out.  
  
"The father, you idiot."  
  
Harry would've thought that he'd be happy to learn from Malfoy's question without having to give him anything; but he found himself instead embarrassed by his ignorance.  
  
"I don't know."  
  
Malfoy sneered. Dobby's concoction was doing its job and his shakes had disappeared. "I doubt you know very much, Potter."  
  
"Why'd you make this stupid deal then?," Harry snapped, immediately regretting his words as Malfoy took it to be his question.  
  
"Because I had hoped our unfortunate encounter on Friday could have some benefits outside increasing the likelihood of both our deaths. Now my turn. What does the full prophesy say?"  
  
Harry felt a shiver run through him and his gut reaction was to not answer. But he had agreed, and he knew that he'd have to give something to get something. And he had already taken something from Malfoy. So he told him, reciting it, as it had been burned into his mind. "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies, and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not, and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives, he one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies."  
  
Draco stared at him for several long moments. Though he took the recitation in stride, he was astonished that Potter had actually told him anything - surprised enough to reevaluate the dark haired boy. There was a disturbing rush of warmth at the fact that he had shown trust in him, him the backstabbing, cold hearted bastard. So he softened his features faintly, and nodded to Potter to ask his question.  
  
Harry let a hesitant smile brush his face as he felt the hostility and tension ease. "When did you start spying for Dumbledore?"  
  
Draco considered his words for a moment. It would be a small matter to answer the question in an entirely uninformative manner, but he did actually feel obligated to respond as straightforwardly as Potter had. More shockingly, however, he almost wanted to tell him. It wasn't easy when one's whole life was a lie - it was particularly hard one's mental health, something that had never been Draco's strong point. His neglected, sociopathic upbringing was in a continuous state of war with the dregs of his natural humanity, and so it was hard to get any peace of mind. He had never wanted to talk to anyone about it, as he had never actually been confronted with a safe opportunity; but now that he was, he did. He wanted to expose his inner world, to receive the social validation so necessary for most people's sense of identity.  
  
"I don't spy for Dumbledore, I spy for myself. I pass information on to him sometimes, and to the Ministry, and to others working against Voldemort. Whoever I think will best use the information. If you're wondering why I didn't follow in Snape's footsteps, there are two reasons. On his side, Dumbledore prefers it this way, so he doesn't have to endorse my behavior or what I have to submit myself to. It would seem hypocritical to protect you so fiercely while sending me to the wolves every week, no? Though this does assume that he knows, which I suspect he does. Anyway, on my side, it's because Dumbledore's goals and my own don't quite overlap. The old coot wants to win this war at any cost, but I want to live to see this war won. So I'm on my own side because I'm the only one who wants to see me alive at the end of this. . . from this point of view, I guess I've been spying for most of my life, though until Voldemort's return, it was only against my charming family."  
  
Now it was Harry's turn to be surprised, dumbfounded even. He had expected more question dodging, not an earnest and poignant monologue that more than answered his question. A smile made its way onto his face, and he had to hold back so that it didn't turn into a big ridiculous toothy grin. He wanted to hug the thin boy, he was so grateful for his decision (however momentary) to finally let up on the acting like an insufferable asshole bastard. This was his opening. It was time to put his cards on the table, because he simply hadn't the cards to play this particular swapping game.  
  
"Draco." Malfoy frowned slightly at the use of his first name - not something either of them heard very often. "I'll be honest with you. I don't know altogether that much. That's why I'm here asking you. Dumbledore doesn't tell me hardly anything, and last year that got my godfather, the closest thing I had to a father, it got him killed. Dumbledore uses me as his pawn, and I'm okay with that, but I'm like you - I want to get out of this alive too, with as many of my friends as possible. And I don't think that can be done when I barely know what's going on. But you do know. So, how about a new deal? You tell me what you know, and keep me updated, and I'll be on your side. . ."  
  
Malfoy appeared about to interrupt, so Harry grabbed his delicate, uncalloused hand and leaned forward to look intensely into his intense eyes. "You said my involvement has put your life at risk. Well, let my involvement protect you. As much as I hate to say it, I am Harry Potter, and it's more than a name, and even if it wasn't, it's a name that can go a long way. But it is more than a name and I guarantee that if you don't take me up on this offer, there will come a time when you'll wish you had, when you'll wish you were on my side. Because I'm Harry fucking Potter, and I'm a contender. We can help each other, or we can get in each other's way."  
  
Finished, Potter released the soft hand and leaned back in his chair. Draco leaned back too, both boys engaging in a symbolic retreat to consider the other. Potter couldn't have known, and Draco's face revealed nothing, but he had just uttered the words that, in the deepest, most vulnerable recesses of his heart, Draco had always wanted to hear (albeit, he'd never even thought of the possibility that they could come from Potter): "I'll be on your side." He was so tired of being an island, but more than that, he was plagued by a loneliness so powerful and so old that it had long ago ceased to be a driving force and was instead an ingrained part of who he was. And yet it was stirred now, terrifying him with the raw vulnerability it exposed.  
  
He suddenly wanted to jump up and scream and rage and knock over the table and hex Potter and damn him for offering him nothing and everything at the same time - for offering him the one thing he could never turn down, despite the certainty that Potter could never actually be on his side. After all, Potter was perfect champion of the Light, while he was. . . contaminated scum, an unworthy backstabbing slut, a disgusting, amoral, self serving, worthless piece of shit. The tirade of self abuse continued, in a voice obviously his father's, and the fury was replaced by defeated, nauseating self loathing. He was weak and pathetic, he decided, for grasping at what was offered, at what was really an unattainable pipedream. He knew he would accept the offer, and he hated himself all the more for it.  
  
Most of his emotional turmoil had remained safe beneath his mask, but he had always been most susceptible in defeat (especially self defeat), and he failed to keep the resignation from his face or voice. "You drive a hard bargain, Potter. But I accept." 


	4. Give and Take

Disclaimer: J. K. Rowling is God and owner of all.  
  
You horrible people! I feel so unloved. Why does no one review? My revenge is this: a short chapter! Mwahahaha! Oh well, I console myself by saying that I write for myself and not you. But a little give and take would sure be appreciated. Please review or else I will be depressed by the thought that no one could even be bothered to read me. = (  
  
Chapter 4: Give and Take  
  
"All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put baby together  
again."  
  
- Aimee Mann, Humpty Dumpty  
  
They talked little more that night, both boys being tired and having the impression that their newly forged relationship was not in a state to withstand much stress. So talking was left for another day, Harry escorted Malfoy back to his dorm (though Dobby's drink had certainly seemed to do wonders), then both passed into deep sleep.  
  
Harry sent message to Malfoy the next day via an unidentifiable school owl. They were to meet up on Sunday evening, after the Slytherin quidditch practice (of which Malfoy was now captain, just as Harry was the captain of the Gryffindor team) and Harry's DADA session, in the Astronomy tower. It was, admittedly, a rather tacky place to meet, but there were good reasons why so many young couples hid up there. There were a lot of rooms (with doors), very few student tended to be nosy (except on nights when the tower was actually being used for astronomical purposes), and most of the professors, either because of tradition or laziness, were disinclined to patrol there. The original thought had been to meet in Malfoy's room, as his status as head boy (mostly a consequence of having grades that trailed behind Hermoine's by only a small margin) gave him his own room. But Harry thought more neutral territory would be better, and figured that the infamous prying eyes of the Slytherin community would make sneaking in and out of their dorms difficult, even under the cover of his invisibility cloak.  
  
Harry had a difficult time concealing his excitement from Ron and Hermione. Now that Malfoy appeared willing to help him, his hatred of the other boy had quickly disappeared. He still disliked him, just for the way he was, but his emotions regarding the Slytherin were fundamentally indifferent. He could be (and probably was) the biggest prat in the world, but the fact that he was going to help him meant that he couldn't really bring himself to care. He would cherish Malfoy for his usefulness even if he disliked him for who he was.  
  
"You're oftly high strung today Harry," Ron noticed during Harry's extracurricular DADA class, after narrowly escaping a particularly aggressive spell from his best friend. And Merlin knows, if Ron noticed something, then it must be blatant. Hermione approached the two boys with a predatory look on her face.  
  
"Yes, Harry. Your behavior of late has been rather. . . erratic. Any beans to spill?" Harry's eyes widened perceptively, making him look both very innocent (in an I-didn't-know-I-was-doing-anything-wrong sort of way) and very guilty (in an I-know-exactly-what-you're-talking-about way). But he refused to take crap from these two - they certainly spent a fair amount of their time holed up together doing who knows what in Hermione's own head girl room.  
  
"Don't be so nosy. You two aren't the only ones that can have developing relationships and hide it from view." Harry laughed and a smile danced on his face as he watched Ron blush brightly. Hermione just looked at him disapprovingly, forcing him to push away a twinge of guilt. But this was one secret he had to keep. So he spoke in a light voice, as a more suitable gravity would have brought no end to Hermione's inquisition. "Oh, 'Mione, don't look at me that way, everything's fine. It's just that this is just not something that is mine to talk about."  
  
Ron, clearly thinking he was hiding some fling, nodded vigorously, anything to get the conversation away from the undefined relationship between himself and Hermione. Hermione nodded more slowly, deliberately, willing to concede, but certainly not willing to stop observing, meditating, and deducting.  
  
He stayed late after his fellow students left, making excuses to Hermione and Ron that he wanted to research some of the books for next week's session. Hermione offered to stay, but Ron saved Harry by begging her to spend her time helping him on a Charms essay for Monday. As soon as they were safely gone, he hid under his invisibility cloak and tore up to the Astronomy tower, despite having a good hour until Malfoy was due. But he wanted some time to himself, to get his wits together, to prepare himself (for what?), to calm his nerves, to do all that crap.  
  
So he perched himself on the windowsill to wait, only to quickly find that when the excitement died down, all there was were morbid and depressing thoughts - about Voldemort and Sirius, about Dumbledore and Malfoy, about Ron and Hermione, and about himself. And he felt more isolated than ever.  
  
"Merlin, I'm going to have to do this by myself," he said to no one.  
  
But then, to his surprise (he almost fell out of the window), no one answered, in a drawling voice that sounded exactly like the youngest Malfoy. "Lonely at the top, is it Potter? Well, it's pretty lonely at the bottom too. And I'd know."  
  
A good quarter of an hour early, Malfoy stood leaning against the stone wall, an enigmatic smirk on his face. Harry snorted. "Well, lonely or not, I'm glad you came."  
  
Malfoy's smirk grew into a massive grin and Harry was briefly startled at how it transformed his face into one both more boyish and more becoming. "Someone should record this for posterity. The day the great Harry Potter was actually glad to see a Malfoy."  
  
"Yeah, well, don't get too exited. It's purely a matter of expediency." Malfoy's face tightened perceptively at that and Harry thought, what's the matter, Malfoy? Can't take as good as you give?  
  
"Story of my life," he replied sarcastically, honestly not sounding like he cared, but the tenseness in his shoulders gave him away. When had Harry become so aware of Malfoy's body language? He didn't think he was so aware of most other people, but then again, most other people said what they meant and meant what they said. Most other people didn't need to be understood from what they didn't say.  
  
Draco prowled around the perimeter of the room, looking very much like he was inspecting the place, but also taking a moment to purge himself of emotions. He really hadn't needed a reminder of how unsavory a character he was, but he was not a quitter, and he would give Potter a real chance, not one preempted by his pride. Finally, after muttering a locking spell on the door and a muting spell on the room, he took a seat, sprawling himself out regally in the rather rickety looking chair.  
  
"Listen, Potter," he said formally, impassively, lifelessly. "You should hurry up and ask me your questions, as I can't guarantee how long my good will will hold out."  
  
And ask Harry did - directly, avoiding the insults and hostility that would hinder him in his mission. And Malfoy provided a cornucopia of answers, a veritable goldmine. Harry would have been wonderstruck if he hadn't been so horrified by the implications of everything Malfoy told him. The number of wizards and witches under the Imperius was astounding, and they were mostly in high places. Even Fudge had been placed under it after the battle in the Ministry, subtly undermining efforts to counter the threat; but perhaps more disturbingly, there were a number of Hogwarts students under it too. Predictably, the death eater ranks had swollen, led by one Lucius Malfoy, and this also included members at the school (Crabbe and Goyle, of course, being the two obvious examples). Furthermore, the disappearances that had been plaguing the wizarding community were actually taking place on a level far beyond what was being reported in the Daily Profit (which had been subverted in any case). The ranks of Aurors had been decimated (something the Daily Profit had failed to mention), and Voldemort had amassed a great army of death eaters, dementors, and. . . undead. There was some resistance, but not much; and the violence had spilled into the Muggle world on an unprecedented level, though it had been attributed to a drastic increase in terrorism and even resulted in a war on some country in the Middle East. The bad news just went on and on.  
  
"Shit," Harry whispered, his face ashen. "Why hasn't he attacked yet? What's he waiting for?"  
  
Malfoy considered him for a long moment. "Potter. . . He doesn't need to attack. Given a little more time, he will have taken over from the inside, with relatively little bloodshed. He wants power and validation, not death. As much as he hates Muggles and Muggle borns, he'd rather see them kissing the ground he walks upon then lying six feet under it. The question is why he hasn't attacked here yet. And the answer is, he's afraid, of both you and Dumbledore, and with good reason. The two have you have been the architects of his failure again and again. But it's only a matter of time really. You must understand, Potter. This is why it is so dangerous for you to know about me. A word to the wrong person, no matter how much you think you can trust them, could quickly result in my death. Even I don't know the names of everyone on his side - there are simply too many of them. So you must trust no one."  
  
"Merlin. . . does Dumbledore know all this?"  
  
"Some of it. The bigger trends, the one's that are hard to hide. But I've sent him some of my information and Severus doesn't have the level of access that I do. I'm favored." Draco smirked, but couldn't keep the bitterness out of his voice.  
  
"You're on a first name basis with Snape?," Harry asked incredulously.  
  
"Are you really that surprised? He is a fellow spy." Malfoy almost sounded tender when talking about the creepy potions professor.  
  
"Why don't you work together with him then?" Harry almost regretted asking when he saw a melancholy look flashed across Malfoy's fine features.  
  
But, with a shaky breath, he answered, "The things that I have to do to be favored make it. . . difficult to be close to me. Distance is his defense against his guilt at what he must consent to by permitting me, as if he could stop me, to do what I do."  
  
"Such as killing and torturing?," Harry snapped maliciously, mostly because he needed someone to lash out at. All the bad news was threatening to bowl him over.  
  
"No, you fuck," Malfoy hissed back, hatred and pain suddenly dripping from every word, and face flushed with anger. "You saw me on Friday. Did it look like I was the one doing the torturing?"  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry immediately replied. And he was honestly sorry: it was becoming increasingly apparent that Malfoy's lot in life was not much better than his. Malfoy relaxed back into his chair and rubbed at his eyes. There was a long silence as Harry, stony faced and gazing out the window, tried to digest all the information. Malfoy watched him soberly. Finally, Harry turned back to him.  
  
"Is that everything?"  
  
Malfoy looked him the eye for a long moment. "No. He has a weapon, something that temporarily makes him stronger. But it has a cumulative effect, and the more he uses, the stronger he gets. Like I said, it's only a matter of time."  
  
"What kind of weapon?"  
  
Another long pause. Malfoy looked down at his hands. "They used to be called Givers, a long time ago."  
  
"What are Givers?"  
  
But Malfoy just shook his head. "That's one you're going to have to look up. You might be able to find something in history books, but more practical information will probably have to come from the Restricted Section."  
  
Harry suspected Malfoy knew more on the subject than he was letting on, but he was distracted by a horrible thought. "Ron and Hermione aren't under the Imperius, are they?," he choked out.  
  
A faint smile. "No, Potter. Your friends are still their own masters, as far as I know anyway. But that doesn't mean you can tell them anything about me or much about what I've told you."  
  
Harry felt a rush of relief, followed by a wave of fatigue. His mind was suddenly exhausted from all the information and refused to consider it for a moment later. And yet he was curiously reluctant to leave this newly discovered Malfoy. . . to which his tire mind turned.  
  
"So, Malfoy, if Crabbe and Goyle are death eaters, who are your real friends?"  
  
The question provoked the strangest expression on Malfoy's face, as if he didn't know whether to take offense or not. "Are you mocking me Potter?," he asked incredulously, growing increasingly upset. "I don't have any friends. I've never had any friends. For fuck's sake, I'd never even met any one my age until I came to Hogwarts! By which time I was already playing my asshole father's sick game! He picked my so called friends before I even got here! And you don't understand. Even before Voldemort's return, he was right terror. And I could either cooperate and fight him behind his back. . . or I could be fucking killed by him."  
  
He had jumped to his feet in the course of his tirade and his last words were ground out between clenched teeth. His hands were balled into fists and he looked almost crazed. Harry hadn't a clue what to say, his eyes wide and frozen to his seat. Then he watched the emotion drain from Malfoy's face before watching him slink to the window, where the moon played hauntingly on his ivory features. Finally, his quiet, mournful voice floated back to him.  
  
"You drive me crazy, Potter. You piss me off so much. No one can make me lose it like you do. . . I wouldn't be alive today if they could."  
  
Harry was almost overwhelmed with regret and pity. And even empathy. He knew how hard it was to be all alone in the world. Impulsively, he stood and came to stand next to the taller boy, staring out the window with him. "I could be your first, if you want," he said gently.  
  
"My first what?," Malfoy asked tiredly, turning slightly to look at him.  
  
"Your first friend, if only in the privacy of these rooms" Harry replied, also turning slightly.  
  
Malfoy looked at him for a long moment, a strange glint in his striking eyes. In an odd, distant voice, "You refused my offer of friendship when we first met."  
  
"That was a lifetime ago."  
  
Malfoy nodded in agreement, then looked back out the window. He felt decades older than his true age himself.  
  
"Is that a yes then?," Potter persisted.  
  
Malfoy turned back to him. "Yes, Potter. I suppose it is." A faint, but genuine smile graced his pink lips, and Harry returned it.  
  
Sticking his hand out, "Call me Harry then."  
  
Malfoy took the proffered hand into a firm grip and shook it. "You can call me Draco if you want, but no one does."  
  
Harry's smile grew. "Then I will. Malfoy reminds me too much of your bastard father."  
  
Draco chuckled. "Okay then, Harry."  
  
"Good. . . And now that that's settled: we've been up here for hours and I'm knackered. Let me escort you back to your dorms so we can go to bed. We can have more depressing conversations later."  
  
"For once, Pot - er - Harry, I agree with you. But don't both with the invisibility cloak. There's a good reason I've never been caught sneaking around after hours. I'm probably sneakier than you are with the cloak."  
  
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Harry laughed. 


	5. Truth and Information

Ass covering clause: Rowling owns all characters. Even my plot is not terribly original.  
  
To my reviewers: You have been few and far between, but it only makes me appreciate you more. To those of you impatient for a little HP/DM action, I promise that it will be worth the wait. The boys still have a while to go, but the wait will just make it all the better when it finally comes (no pun intended, mwahahaha!).  
  
Chapter 5: Truth and Information  
  
"I'm a loser and a user, so I don't need no accuser."  
  
- Greenday, When I Come Around  
  
After a good night's sleep, Harry woke energized and determined. Suddenly everything Draco had told him didn't seem so overwhelming. He was going to kill that bastard Voldemort and return the wizarding community to its rightful state. Or else he would die in the process. He would rather not die, but the important thing was that he do something, that he try. Waiting around for the world to end would surely have given him a nervous breakdown.  
  
His first step was to bring Hermione and Ron in on certain facts, for he knew they could help; but it would be difficult to separate what to tell them from what would be best left unsaid. He was no good a lying, at dodging questions, or at telling half truths. It usually just seemed like the truth wanted to come out.  
  
Late that evening, Harry knocked on Hermione's door and, upon being admitted, was completely unsurprised to see Ron there too. Still, he couldn't help the rush of curiosity as once again he could make out no hint of what they had been doing. Neither looked flushed or particularly rumpled (in Ron's case, no more than usual), nor were there any books lying about.  
  
"Okay, guys. I have something to tell you."  
  
With a groan, Ron plopped down on the bed. "These conversations never end well. You never have anything good to say. Unless. . . is this about the girl you've been seeing?"  
  
Hermione raised a questioning eyebrow at Harry; she knew that Harry wasn't seeing any girl. She settled herself down next to Ron, to gaze expectantly at the Boy-Who-Lived, who was beginning to shuffle his feet nervously.  
  
"Okay, so here goes. The truth is that I'm not seeing a girl. I've been working to acquire information about Voldemort and the situation outside of Hogwarts. This has been a bit difficult because, as I'm sure you're aware, the Order won't tell us a thing. I hate to be the same way, but if you don't push me for more than I can say, I can tell you some of what I've learned. And, maybe you can help."  
  
Ron's mouth fell open with astonishment, and even Hermione looked surprised. Harry gave them a moment before continuing, thinking that if he could get to the actual information, maybe they would be distracted from the fact that he was keeping a lot from them. "So here's the thing. Voldemort's got some weapon that I've never heard of, and I need know what it is. They're called Givers, and they make him stronger, but that's all I know really, except that maybe we'd need to look in history books and in the Restricted Section to find anything on them."  
  
His two friends were still looking at him with slightly startled expressions, but then Ron's transformed itself into a frown. "Givers? Isn't that what Vayla was? From the kids' story?"  
  
He looked up at his friends, who were now looking at him with some surprise. "Uh, right. You wouldn't know about it, what with growing up Muggle and all. It's just this story about this butt ugly wizard, a real nobody, who one day meets Vayla, a powerful witch and a Giver. A Giver was supposed to be a woman whose love has the power to make men strong, or something like that. Anyway, in the story, Vayla falls in love with the poor guy and gives him the power to become a great ruler. Uhhh. . . I can't remember much else. I always thought the tale kinda sucked."  
  
"Surely this doesn't mean some Giver, or whatever, has fallen in love with Voldemort?!," Harry blurted out, voice dripping with scepticism. Ron looked embarrassed at that, but Hermione, to the relief of both boys, looked thoughtful, then almost excited.  
  
"Well, you've come to the right person! Super 'Mione to the rescue!" Both Harry and Hermoine broke into loud fits of laughter, as Ron looked at them indulgently, having long ago come to grips with their strange Muggle flavored humor. "Seriously, though," Hermione continued once she'd gotten her breath back. "I'll check out this whole Vayla the love Giver thing." And, of course, they dissolved into giggles again, this time also taking Ron along for the ride.  
  
"This time I really am serious. Harry, you can count on me. I'll see what I can find, and given that I always find something, it's only a matter of time before I can tell you all you need to know about, well, anything. I'll even get Ron to help."  
  
"Hey!," Ron protested.  
  
"Oh, I promise, this is something you want to do," Hermione replied in a deep, quite unreadable tone. Harry couldn't tell if was a promise of reward or punishment, but Ron certainly seemed to know what she met.  
  
"Yes, ma'am!," he barked, straightening his back and saluting (something else Hermione had taught him), but with a goofy smile on his face. "Will report as soon as we know something, Captain Potter!"  
  
"You two are incorrigible," Harry said with a laugh.  
  
*  
  
In public, Harry and Draco's relationship hadn't changed a bit. There was still the occasional scathing exchange and though they weren't very frequent, this was a trend dating back from fifth year, not a new pattern. Harry and Draco met up on Tuesday to discuss matters more, for despite Sunday's conversation, there was much detail to be hashed over and Harry wanted to know as much as possible. They were still incapable of having a civil conversation, bickering constantly (as Draco seemed incapable of breaking his ingrained habit of being scathing, while Harry couldn't stop himself from retaliating), but they had attempted to get around this by simply not taking offence. Draco had explained that, according to his philosophy, words mean nothing and actions everything. Harry, of course, had had to point out that Draco did take offence, to which Draco had guilty confessed that this was because he was weak. Harry told him that he was crazy and Draco had agreed that it was a distinct possibility.  
  
Harry also waited up for Draco again that following Thursday night. Again, Draco apparated into the Hogsmeade passage covered in blood and shaking like a leaf.  
  
"That must be a bloody useful skill. How do you do it?," Harry questioned, watching with admiration as Draco healed himself.  
  
"It's not hard, really. It just takes years of practice and some inherent talent."  
  
"Well, that doesn't sound hard at all," Harry replied sarcastically. "Who would've thought that a Malfoy would have inherent healing talents?" With that he turned around to give Draco the privacy to heal the last of his wounds.  
  
"I have all sorts of inherent talents, Potter. They're the only things my parents gave me, except of course this charming life." His last words came out laced in (physical) pain, then he removed his hands from his pants. "Lets get the hell out of here."  
  
Harry had mercy and decided not to question Draco more, for the moment. He helped Draco to the kitchens, where Dobby again greeted them with relief and exuberance.  
  
"So, what's your deal with Dobby?"  
  
"He's to go tell Dumbledore with what little he knows the night I don't return. Bizarrely enough, he's almost family. He and this bastard teacher I had were practically the only beings I had contact with for the first six years of my life."  
  
"What happened after that?"  
  
"My parents deemed me old enough to behave and they moved me out of the white room that they'd kept me for as long as I could remember." Deadpan.  
  
"Shit. It sounds like your folks and mine should get together and have dinner some time." Harry released a bitter laugh, to which Draco gave a wry smile.  
  
"If you wanted your folks killed, maybe."  
  
"Who says I don't?"  
  
"You wouldn't do something like that. Or at least, I wouldn't have thought so before the whole Veritaserum incident."  
  
But Harry didn't know how to respond to that; even he had noticed a certain moral flexibility that had developed in his character. The means no longer mattered, provided that they were justified by their ends. So the two boys sat and brooded for several long moments. It wasn't until Harry saw Draco's eyes drooping that he jerked himself from his stupor and helped Draco back to the Slytherin dorms. For his part, Draco was just relieved to have someone with which to share his burden. He recognized Harry as a kindred spirit simply by virtue of the fact that they both were (or at least felt themselves to be) responsible for the fate of the wizarding world. It was a responsibility that had isolated them both from everyone else, and yet now bound them together. The weight didn't seem so great, now that Harry shared it; and though he would not admit it, Harry felt the same way.  
  
That Saturday, after a day holed up in the library (indeed, Harry had seen very little of Hermione since Monday; predictably, Ron had given up on research after only a day), Hermione appeared at dinner with a grim, but self satisfied smirk on her face. "Guess who pulled through for side of good again?," she whispered to them.  
  
"Thank Merlin. I thought you were never going to leave that library ever again," Ron proclaimed. Hermione elbowed him and he pretended to be in pain. Harry grinned at them.  
  
In the privacy of Hermione's room, she laid it on them; though when she began to recount what she had learned, her tone changed and it became clear that something about what she'd learned had angered her deeply.  
  
"You were right, Ron, about the tale of Vayla. She was a Giver. In fact, there are a number of vague historical accounts from centuries and centuries ago of wizards and even a few witches who supposedly drew their power from their escorts, aka Givers. Sometimes these relationships seemed to be forged in love, but most of the time it rather hard to believe that the Givers were anything other than hostages who were being forced to empower their captors. Actually, about a handful of fairy tales told today had their basis in a history involving Givers. But eventually, the Givers seemed to die out, though some thought that they had simply learned to hide their powers to protect themselves from exploitation. They could do this because Givers are like Seers. They're human, they just have gifts. And that's about all I could learn about the Givers from the history books."  
  
Both Ron and Harry were looking at her raptly, with wide eyes - a look that, years ago, she had dubbed 'the learning expression'. So she continued, her voice darkening further with anger. "Several books in the Restricted Section were, however, particularly informative. You see, lending their power to others is not really the so called gift that these poor people have. Rather, they have a different sort of. . . well, life energy I guess. They are capable of imparting it to others and of manipulating it, and this allows them to do some forms of wandless magic particularly well, but they certainly cannot do anything like impart their magical power to others. Not naturally anyway."  
  
Both Harry and Ron could tell from Hermione's lead up that whatever she was going to say was going to be horrible; and both waited tensely, awkwardly, as though waiting to see some awful accident that they could see coming a mile away.  
  
"Here's where the really sick part comes in. For the most part, our encounters with ancient magic have worked in our benefit - or, rather, to yours Harry, since you are the one who has been saved and protected by such ancient magics. But not all of them need be so well intentioned. Once I read about it, I was so mad at myself. It's obvious. All of the most old and powerful magic is based in the most basic nature of humans - blood, love, hate, death, birth. . . sex." Hermione's voice had become so soft that it was almost hard to hear. Neither Harry nor Ron looked like they wanted to guess what Hermione was getting at.  
  
"What are you talking about?," Ron asked tightly.  
  
"The power of sex. There exist several spells that require sex, and the purpose of all of these spells in to transfer something between one person and another. One of the spells even allows somebody to drain the life out of another. Normally, this kills the drainee and creates a temporary crazed high in the drainer. The drainer has more power for a period of time, but is in no state to use it to achieve any rational ends. The drainer is literally made temporarily schizophrenic, and so the spell is not actually very useful. Except someone found a way to use it and not go nuts."  
  
"The Givers," Harry supplied, feeling quite disgusted and a little ill. Ron had a positively pained expression on his face.  
  
"Right. Their energy allows the drainer to take in levels of power that won't drive him or her insane, while at the same time leaving the victim alive to be used again and again. And this is why they are called Givers. Though it might be more accurate to call everyone else Takers."  
  
There was a long, sober silence. Finally, Harry forced out, "Is there anything else?"  
  
"Like the gory details?"  
  
"No. I think I can live without those."  
  
"Good. Because its even worse than what I've told you. What's required to make the spell take is. . . horrific. Horrific beyond even having one's life force sucked from them." There was another long silence, almost like a moment of silence out of respect for the dead - or, in this case, the horror. Finally, Hermione continued, tears in her eyes. "Harry. . . you have to save her. Vol-Voldemort's holding some poor woman hostage, torturing and raping her mind and body. And has been for who knows how long."  
  
*  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry growled at Draco, taking a menacing step towards the blond. He couldn't explain it, but Draco made him crazy too. Draco pissed him off and made him lose it the way no one else could. The fact that he hadn't told Harry about the Givers was enough to completely transform his burgeoning fondness and respect for the boy back into its original fury. No one could roller coaster his emotions like Draco. Indeed, neither was ever as volatile as they were in the presence of each other.  
  
Harry hadn't taken more than two steps towards Draco before the latter had whipped out his wand and was pointing it at Harry. "You are sadly mistaken if you think our recent lack of hostility means I will let you manhandle me, even if you are angry. Step any closer and I WILL hurt you." His voice was quiet, but deadly.  
  
"I wasn't going to hurt you, Draco," Harry said neutrally; and it was the truth. In his mind, he had seen him backing the Slytherin up against the wall, and getting in his face, yelling at him. But he hadn't wanted to hurt him. In fact, he had developed as soft spot for the other boy that firmly believed that he had suffered and was suffering enough and that he deserved no more, especially from Harry. "I was going to say nasty things, but I wasn't going to hurt you."  
  
Draco was undecided for a moment, but then he lowered his wand, acknowledging to himself that he had a tendency to be overly defensive. But then again, he couldn't afford not to be.  
  
It was a Sunday night again, after Slytherin quidditch practice and Harry's DADA sessions, and this time they had met in some windowless room in the dungeons that Harry had never been in before. Their skirmish had diffused the situation somewhat; but Harry still asked accusingly, "Why didn't you tell me about the Giver? That poor woman. . . It's so horrible I almost can't believe it. You should've told me."  
  
Draco walked towards the wall and leaned heavily against it, rubbing his eyes and temples with the heels of his hands. Then he ran his hands through his hair, having failed to slick it back after his post quidditch shower. When he finally spoke, his voice was exhausted. "Potter. . . Harry. It is horrible, and that's why I didn't tell you. You need to focus on. . . her. . . in her capacity as a weapon, not as a victim. You need to be worrying about the fate of the wizarding world, not of one witch. Besides, there's nothing you can do for her. If you rescued her, you couldn't hide her - Voldemort is too connected to her, he could find her anywhere. And you couldn't protect her here, for he would come for her, and kill all the children that reside here, and maybe even destroy any hope of resistance. And she wouldn't come with you anyway. She knows that it would be useless, that she'd be captured again, only then it would be even worse, for she would have been revealed to be wilful and disobedient and so would have to be punished even more. She's not dead, Harry, which is more than you can say for a lot of people, and she's strong enough to survive, for now anyway. If you really want to save her, then destroy Voldemort. That's the only way to set her free."  
  
"You still should have told me." There was no anger in Harry's voice (indeed, Draco's speech had left him rather depressed), but the principle demanded that he insist. "The deal was you'd tell me everything."  
  
Draco looked at Harry, his sapphire eyes narrowing in anger, then he did something unprecedented: he turned away. He rested his forehead against the cool stone wall and said nothing. Finally, as the silence stretched to uncomfortable levels, Harry spoke again.  
  
"Are you all right?," he asked awkwardly.  
  
"Just a head ache," Draco replied tiredly. With a great sigh, he turned himself around and continued, "Anyway. We should stop meeting up so frequently, it's too suspicious, and even if Crabbe and Goyle are too stupid to BE suspicious, that doesn't mean everyone is."  
  
Harry frowned, curiously unenthusiastic about the prospect of spending even less time with Draco. "When will I see you then?"  
  
"If you don't mind missing the sleep, it might be best if we kept meeting on the nights I see Voldemort - at least then I have an excuse for being out of the dorms and its so late that none of your roommates are likely to notice anway." Harry nodded his agreement, for, in truth, it is something he would have done with or without Draco's consent. Last Thursday, waiting for Draco to reapparate from whatever hell he had apparated to, had been one of the more decidedly unpleasant experiences he had had in a long while. The wait had seemed to stretch forever and at several points in time he had thought the stress was giving him chest pains. There was no way he was going to be anywhere but in the secret passage during the time Draco was doing whatever it was he did with the Dark Lord.  
  
XXXXX  
  
To be continued. . .  
  
As the author, I am completely biased. However, as the readers, maybe you can answer a question for me: Can you tell what's going to happen? Is it obvious? Please, if you are so inclined, tell me what you think is going to happen, so I can assess my story telling abilities. I'm trying to improve for YOU! 


	6. This Song and Dance

Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine.  
  
Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you. I've finally gotten some feedback!  
  
Chapter 6: This Song and Dance  
  
"What have I done to you?  
  
That you make everything I fear and everything I dread come true?"  
  
- Joni Mitchell, The Sire of Sorrow (Job's Sad Song)  
  
It happened during Transfiguration, which the Slytherins took with the Hufflepuffs, on a Monday two weeks after Harry and Draco's encounter over the Givers; it was now approaching the end of November and there had been three evening in which Draco had gone on what Harry had now dubbed 'missions'.  
  
Draco was hunched down in his seat, his long legs reaching far out in front of him and tapping his parchment with his quill. Professor McGonagall was droning on in her scratchy, high pitched voice. Draco generally quite liked being in class - it was an opportunity to relax, to learn, to be left alone, to escape a role in which he had to constantly berate and bagger people (and while he was mostly indifferent to the suffering he caused in others, it was a role he would have preferred to assume defensively, not offensively). It was a relief to be passive for once and to just absorb the knowledge that came at him; given his obvious absorption in his classes, it was of little surprise to anyone that Draco was the top of all his classes, save those he had with Granger. He was a little bitter that she always managed to best him, but not too much so, for ultimately he learned for himself, not for his grades.  
  
So he actually ignored the first hex that came his way. A small flick of his wand and a few quietly muttered words stopped his shoes from tying themselves together. But the second hex couldn't be ignored, for it stood his precious hair straight up and caught the attention of both Crabbe and Goyle; furthermore, it was accompanied by the quite audible hiss of "death eater, scum!".  
  
Lightening reflexes forced him to take up the role in which he lived most of his life and he shot up from his desk, whipping around to face his tormentor as he did so. His wand was out almost instantly, and pointed at the hate filled face of one of his Hufflepuff classmates. "Canineus Grossae!"  
  
The Hufflepuff, a brief look of shock flickering across his face, promptly crumpled and slipped from his chair. His back arched and his body shuddered, shrinking and sprouting fur until only the fattest dog anyone had ever seen lay sprawled on the floor, struggling within human clothes and Hufflepuff robes. Crabbe and Goyle were guffawing hysterically and a number of the other Slytherins were cheering and laughing. Several of the Hufflepuff were starting to their feet, looking furious.  
  
"MISTER MALFOY!," Professor McGonagall thundered, for voice freezing the Hufflepuffs in their seats and silencing the Sytheirns. Malfoy turned slowly to face her, running his hand through his hair once to slick it back down. "Just what do you think you are doing?"  
  
"That Hufflepuff cur hexed my hair," Draco sneered. One of the Slytherins snickered.  
  
"That is no excuse, Mister Malfoy! And worse, you know better! Fifty points from Slytherin. And a week of detentions with. . . No! I have a better idea. Instead of detentions, your punishment will be to perform in the talent show on Friday. And it better be good, Mister Malfoy, and at least ten minutes long!"  
  
Draco looked slightly ruffled, in a way that detentions wouldn't have been able to ruffle him, and Professor McGonagall looked distinctly smug.  
  
*  
  
The Hufflepuff was, of course, quickly returned to human form, though probably having failed to learn not to mess with Malfoy. Times were tense, these days, and people were scared. The state of the wizarding community was not general knowledge, but the fear and suspicion so prevalent on the outside could not help but permeate Hogwarts too. The incident in Transfiguration was not the first to occur. A few others, and not all Slytherins, had been harassed for being suspected death eaters - Draco's retaliation had only been the most drastic. Rumors flew around the school faster than one could even think possible.  
  
"You wouldn't believe what happened today in the other Transfiguration class!," Seamus loudly announced.  
  
"What?," Ron asked disinterestedly between the mouths full of food he was shovelling into his mouth.  
  
"Malfoy turned that chunky Hufflepuff, McCleod, into a fat pug dog!"  
  
Ron laughed so hard, food flew out of his mouth and splattered all over the boy sitting across from him, causing Hermione to roll her eyes. "Ron!," Harry fumed, picking the food blobs off of his robes. "It wasn't that funny!"  
  
"Wait! It gets better!," Seamus continued. "Malfoy's punishment. . . is to perform in the talent show on Friday!"  
  
This time, both Harry and Hermione joined Ron in heaving, breathless laughter, as did a number of other Gryffindors sitting nearby. The talent show had been the brainchild of the teachers and the Prefects (though, as Head Boy, Draco had objected even at the idea's inception), as a way to get the students' minds off the bleakness outside. And right now, the idea was certainly succeeding.  
  
Harry looked over to the Slytherin table, where Draco was scowling and looking quite annoyed as Crabbe and Goyle recounted their version of the story (he could tell because they were practically yelling and attempting to act it out). Pansy appeared to be trying to comfort him, whispering in his ear, clinging to him arm, and generally behaving in a manner that displeased Harry, though he couldn't really imagine why he should care. Pansy was suddenly just so. . . irritating.  
  
Draco was keeping a tight reign on his temper. What he really wanted to do, however, was vaporize that stupid fat Hufflepuff for being an interfering bastard. Then he would pulverize his two stupid fat henchmen for being loud and obnoxious death eaters. It was definitely not a good day to be stupid and fat (though when is it ever?).  
  
Pansy, however, was both clever and thin - well, as thin as one can be when one is endowed with the most incredible set of breasts Draco had ever had the pleasure to encounter; and not to mention a voluptuous ass to match. In fact, Draco quite liked Pansy, and not just because she was hot. She reminded him of himself: she was scathing and sharp on the outside, but she was vulnerable on the inside, and, somewhere in the deepest recesses of her soul, where her parents' poison could never reach, she was even a good person. He had been able to touch her there, years ago, as she had been able to touch him. It had been a pretty much platonic relationship, but they had managed to love in each other, amidst the trustless sea of Slytherins. But in the end, it had hurt them both too much to be together, for Draco had too many secrets and Pansy was too weak, and these were barriers that both proved too afraid (or maybe just too young) to break down.  
  
Still, a special relationship existed between them, though they spent little actual time together anymore, and both knew that they had had their chance and that there could not be another. On Draco's part, their relationship involved helping Pansy with potions and DADA, coupled with a number of attempts to demolish any and all of Pansy's love interests. And surprisingly, the latter was something that Pansy actually appreciated (after getting over the anger), for it was proof that he still cared and she knew that whatever was left between her and Draco was still worth more than her passing infatuations with, say, a particular Hufflepuff. She herself would also have been jealous of any of Draco's love interests, had he ever appeared to have any (which he never had).  
  
So, despite his irritation, Draco was grateful that Pansy was there next to him, wrapped around his arm and whispering scathing, but very amusing insults (directed primarily at Crabbe and Goyle) in his ear. Soon enough, he fowl mood eased and his mind began to stew on more practical matter. He suddenly turned to Pansy. "Pansy, I have a proposition for you. If your finished here, would you come up to my room with me?"  
  
"Why, certainly. Anything for you, Draco." Incidentally, Pansy was pretty much the only other person at Hogwarts that called Draco by his first name.  
  
Of course there were loud catcalls and whistles from the nearby Slytherins, drawing the attention of most of the hall, but neither cared and, besides, both were made less suspicious by the appearance of engaging in the occasional romp with one another. From the Gryffindor table, Harry watched them go from amidst a few disgusted comments from his housemates.  
  
*  
  
Several days passed until it was Friday, the day of both the talent show and another one of Draco's late night rendezvous with Voldemort and Harry. It was looking to be another action packed evening/night.  
  
Harry was dying of curiosity (though he was certainly not the only one). In potions, the last class on Fridays, he could no longer restrain himself. "Hey, Malfoy! Going to make a fool of yourself this evening? That ought to be right entertaining."  
  
"If I do, could I join the ranks of you and the Weasel?"  
  
"Hey!," Ron started, but clamped up as Snape and his great billowing cloak strode into the room. Harry gave Draco a big grin before they both turned in their seats to face the front of the room.  
  
That evening brought almost the entire school to the Great Hall. The tables had been removed and the chairs arranged to face the teachers' table, only the teachers' table had been transformed into a large stage with curtains, spotlights (enchanted to follow the performers), and everything. The set up was quite grand, giving the students a sense of wonder to add to their scorn. Maybe they weren't just gathered to watch people make idiots of themselves, maybe there was actually something to see. Even Dumbledore had taken time out of his busy schedule to come watch.  
  
The program began with the two teachers that had agreed to perform - Professor Sprout and Professor McGonagall, the former who claimed to be able to sing (though there was little evidence of this) and the latter who proved to have a fantastic set of lungs, when used on the bagpipe. The two teachers were followed by the students, starting with the youngest years and moving up from there. It was generally agreed that the performances of few first and second year students were atrocious, but talent began to become apparent with the third years. There was singing, dancing, acting, musical instruments, and all sorts of tricks and magic performance, some of which was quite impressive. Ginny Weasley revealed an unexpected calling for comedy, performing a skit with Seamus that had most of the Hall in tears of laughter - though there was some evidence (mainly in the form of suspicious side effects) that Ginny's friends had cast a short lived laughing spell on the entire Hall. Finally, Dean belted out an excellent version of Eminem's "Lose Yourself".  
  
Then Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson were announced, to be performing two pieces. There was some surprise, as no one had suspected that Malfoy would not be performing alone; even the Slytherins had suspected that their recent evenings together had been spent engaged in wild sex.  
  
The lights dimmed, then the spotlights trained themselves on two figures that emerged from behind the back curtains. There were a few scandalized gasps as the two strutted to center stage. Pansy was wearing the bare minimum of clothing - a tiny white miniskirt and a matching tiny tube top that left almost nothing to the imagination (though she certainly had the body to pull it off). Draco was wearing a full length black leather pants, as well as a full length black shirt, and both articles of clothing clung to his body so tightly that they gave everyone a pretty good idea of what they were missing. Anyone who had thought Draco all skin and bones would now have been proven sorely wrong - he was slender, and thin boned, but there was a definite and obvious layer of muscle padding his body. . . as well as a healthy bulge at the junction of his long legs. There was not a soul in that room (save perhaps the teachers) that didn't feel some pangs of lust; and a rush of silent anticipation filled the room.  
  
A soft, sultry beat started up, and the stunning pair began to sway to the music (though 'sway' in no way does justice to the fluidity and eroticism of their movements). After several moments, Draco stilled, then began to sing, in a strong, clear voice:  
  
"You told me once, long ago. . .  
  
That there were things I didn't know."  
  
Completing a breathtaking and straight legged bend to touch the ground, Pansy sung the next line, leaving Draco free to imitate her movement.  
  
"I said then that I loved you anyway,  
  
But that was then and this is today."  
  
Pansy's incredible, very high voice ended, and once again Draco took over:  
  
"Yes, that was then and this now.  
  
I want to love you, but I don't know how."  
  
Pansy had slunk up to Draco and was rubbing herself against him, using him as the pole for her pole dance as he continued with the chorus.  
  
"Tell me your secrets,  
  
Tell me your secrets."  
  
Pansy stilled and finished the chorus as Draco, his head thrown back, proceeded to drag his body down Pansy's.  
  
"Tell me your secrets.  
  
Together we'll face whatever comes next."  
  
Harry was stunned, so stunned that he was frozen to his seat and he could barely think. He was rock hard (though he was not, by far, the only one) and horrified to realize that he didn't know which one of the dancers he wanted to fuck and which one he was jealous of. Maybe both. All he knew was that he was mindlessly horny and furiously jealous, that he wanted to be in a Draco-Pansy sandwich; and that he was staring at Draco's perfect lips as he sung:  
  
"It's years later and you're still haunted.  
  
You're always running,  
  
Never throwing down the gauntlet."  
  
Pansy had been whipping her hair around and practically riding Draco's leg. When her couplet came, Draco hands began to roam her body to the rhythm. (A sudden jerk beside him alerted Harry to the fact that Ron was on the verge of having a conniption. Hermione was just staring with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth.)  
  
"But I can't love no caged animal,  
  
'cause you can't love,  
  
With your back up against the wall."  
  
Draco began singing, leaving Pansy free to ripple her body along Draco's, her ass fitting perfectly into his crotch area. (Harry bit his lip against the ache in his own groin.)  
  
"Tell me, and I won't laugh,  
  
But if you don't,  
  
Then our love won't last."  
  
They sung the chorus together this time, briefly shimmying against each other before ending the song by tenderly holding each other.  
  
"Tell me your secrets,  
  
Tell me your secrets.  
  
Tell me your secrets.  
  
Together we'll face whatever comes next."  
  
There was a slightly traumatized silence, then most of the Great Hall burst in a pandemonium of catcalls, whistles, clapping, and shouts of both appreciation and outrage. When the noise died down somewhat, Draco stepped forwards to announce their next piece (for his detention had stipulated that his performance be no shorter than ten minutes).  
  
"MISTER MALFOY!," McGonagall shouted, looking quite irate and not just a little embarrassed. "That is quite enough! Get off the stage NOW! . . . May decency be spared another such affront."  
  
Draco bowed in acknowledgement, then both he and Pansy bowed deeply to their audience, who had once again started cheering. With that, they left the stage and the Great Hall entirely, abandoning an exceedingly turned on crowd of teenagers to the boring the torture that was supposed to be the seventh year performances. Even Dumbledore's spectacular light and smoke show that concluded the night had nothing on the two Slytherins - they were that hard of an act to follow.  
  
*  
  
Draco met up with Harry at twenty 'til midnight, in the secret Hogsmeade passage. Harry had, in fact, been waiting for Draco, brooding and being generally disturbed by the evening's events.  
  
"Harry. Like the show?," Draco immediately asked upon arrival, pleased with himself and a big evil smirk plastered to his face - a big evil smirk that pissed off Harry to no end.  
  
"I liked Pansy. You just looked like a slut," Harry lied, lashing out, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he felt like kicking himself. He knew Draco well enough at this point to know that this was not a retort to which he would take kindly. And he was right. Draco felt his blood run cold and he felt nausea rise up from his stomach; and he hated himself that he cared what Harry thought of him; that Harry could make him feel that what Harry thought was all that mattered; that a few words for Harry could take his rare self satisfaction and contort it into familiar self disgust.  
  
"If you were anyone else, I would have fucking killed you for that," he replied, his voice soft and dangerous.  
  
Harry immediately recanted. "I'm sorry, Draco. That was uncalled for. You guys were good actually."  
  
Draco nodded, though the apology could not nearly heal the wound of the insult. He sat against the wall, waiting for midnight, when he could apparate away. He had been looking forward to talking and bantering with Harry, but had been quickly cured of that appetite. After a prolonged silence, Harry forced himself to try to make it up to Draco.  
  
"So, is Pansy a death eater?," he asked contritely and curiously.  
  
After a moment, Draco shook his head, then finally looked up at Harry with a small smile on his face. "Pansy is. . . one of the victims of this war. She plays the role she has been given and tries to keep a low profile; but her father and older sister are death eaters, so it's not easy. Pansy is just. . . Pansy. She's sharp and sexy and alive. I don't know how to explain it. She's human, the only one I know. Except maybe you."  
  
"Why aren't you still going out with her then?," Harry asked, finding himself inexplicably and bizarrely pleased that Draco considered him human.  
  
Draco was slightly taken aback by Harry's bluntness, but he answered anyway. "She deserves someone who won't keep secrets from her. And someone who can dedicate their time to her, not suck her into this sick game that is my life. And I suppose I needed someone strong enough to play this sick game with me. But not against me. . . does that make any sense?"  
  
Surprisingly, it did. Harry had never really been in love, but somehow he empathized, for he hoped, deep inside, to find such a kindred spirit. "I get what you're saying."  
  
Draco nodded, then stood, brushing himself off. "Ugh, I really don't want to go tonight. I imagine my father will be rather displeased about tonight's performance. And, of course, one of those fucking snoops will have told him."  
  
Harry frowned, and worry slipped into his voice. "Are you going to be okay?"  
  
Draco looked at him and smirked. "Harry, haven't you learned anything about me? I'm a fucking cockroach. I'm always okay." And with that, he was gone.  
  
*  
  
Draco reapparated later than usual, collapsing to the ground upon appearing. After a short moment of waiting yielded no movement, Harry kneeled next to the crumpled and gently touched his arm. "Draco. . . Draco?"  
  
But there was no response.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Readers: I suppose I owe an apology. Most of this chapter (the talent show and its lead in) is not particularly necessary to the overall plot. It's just that it was part of the story's original inception, so I felt obliged to keep it, out of loyalty. I found the whole talent show scene particularly hard to write, so please be forgiving. I promise 'good' things are coming in the next chapter! (As always, more reviews would be greatly appreciated!) 


	7. Weapons and Pawns

Disclaimer: Ils ne sont pas les miens. Not mine, not mine, not mine.  
  
Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you! And thanks to my new beta reader! (Dear Redmeadow, don't worry, no Pansy action.)  
  
Chapter 7: Weapons and Pawns  
  
"Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I'm only falling apart."  
  
- Bonnie Raitt, Total Eclipse of the Heart  
  
Harry muttered Draco's lighting spell, and a pale blue globe emerged from his wand before floating up to ceiling of the passage, casting soft light on Draco's features and causing Harry to grimace. His eyes were closed peacefully, but his face was a patchwork of blood and bruising, the hues of which were indistinguishable in such dim light, but were unmistakeably dark. Then Harry noticed that blood was pooling on the ground where he lay.  
  
Shit, Shit, Shit! Harry had never seen Draco bleed so much; there had been blood smudges from where his blood soaked robes had touched the ground, but never had it flowed, never had it pooled. Panic gripped Harry, what should he do? Should he take him to Madam Pomfrey? Draco would never forgive him if he did. . . He decided to apply what little healing magic he knew, and if that didn't stop the bleeding or wake Draco up, then he would take him to Madam Pomfrey.  
  
First, he pointed his wand at Draco's face and whispered the only healing spell he had ever been able to master; and it worked as well as it could, but it was a spell for healing minor injuries, not what he was being confronted with here. Still, the bruises faded, and most of the cuts healed themselves, save for a nasty, oozing gash through Draco's left eyebrow, which the spell was only able to close a little. Then Harry turned Draco onto his back and stripped off his death eater robes, flinging them aside and revealing light grey pyjamas soaked in blood. He winced and peeled off the shirt, exposing ugly bruises and shredded skin, seeping blood. His spell wove the skin back together and again healed most of the bruises, except a particularly large and dark bruise that Harry suspected indicated several broken ribs. He carefully wiped away the blood, then concluded that there was nothing more he could do there.  
  
He gently lifted the battered body and healed the wounds on Draco's back; then he repeated the process on his arms.  
  
"Draco, please wake up," Harry whined. He didn't want to take off Draco's bloodied pants - because, oddly enough, he didn't want to betray the blonde, didn't want to deprive the other boy of that small shred of dignity that he had tried to retain.  
  
But Draco didn't wake, and Harry reluctantly slid his pants off, chuckling with pained affection at the lack of underwear. Actually, the damage didn't look that bad, not compared with his torso. He healed the cuts and bruises, wincing with sympathy at the injured organs; then he moved on to the legs, though his right leg sported a gash that couldn't be mended so easily.  
  
Finally, he gently turned the limp body onto its right side.  
  
Harry whimpered at what he saw. Blood was seeping from between pale, bruised cheeks, and dried blood was caked to his thighs and ass. Harry jerked away and gagged. He felt weak for a moment, as though he might pass out, his thoughts racing with crazed vigor and flooding his mind. It didn't take a genius for the pieces to fall into place: the torture, the rape, Draco's knowledge, his strange behavior, the Givers. . . Harry felt a rush of regret and self hate, and dry heaved as he thought about what he had snapped at Draco before he'd apparated. "I liked Pansy. You looked like a slut."  
  
He forced himself not to think about everything and bit his lip until he tasted blood, trying to focus on the task at hand. He reached out with a trembling hand and parted the soft cheeks, then positioned his wand near the torn, bleeding hole and he hoarsely whispered the healing spell.  
  
Harry turned Draco onto his back and retrieved the death eater robes to wrap him in. He reached out and tenderly stroked the side of the pale face, tears prickling at his eyes. "Oh Draco. Why didn't you tell me?"  
  
He waited for a few moments. "Please wake up. Please."  
  
But, of course, Draco did not wake up. So Harry gathered him in his arms and picked him up, surprised and concerned at how light the body was. He staggered down the passage, dreading the confrontation with Madam Pomfrey that was looking increasingly inevitable. However, a miracle occurred, and as he neared the exit, Draco stirred. Harry quickly settled him on the ground and watched with concern as Draco shifted, then sat up with a cry of pain and began to cough up blood while Harry held him and helped him support his weight.  
  
"Draco, please. You have to heal yourself," Harry begged.  
  
Draco nodded weakly and brought his shaking hands to his chest, where a punctured lung was trying to kill him. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped, then inhaled deeply as he found himself suddenly able to breathe without hindrance. After a moment, the stabbing pain above his left eye brought his hand to his temple, where he healed the gash through his eyebrow. He followed this action with a similar one directed at the aching wound on his leg. Only then was his mind endowed with the coherency to grasp his situation.  
  
He wretched himself away from Harry's supportive embrace with an alarmed whimper and then struggled to his feet, only to collapse again with a sickening crack as his knees hit the ground, his legs too shaky to support him. Harry rushed to him. "Don't! Draco!"  
  
Harry wrapped his arms around Draco, resisting his weak attempts to pull away until the body stilled. It was Draco's turn to bite his lip, trying desperately, futilely not to cry; but it was hopeless, and a pathetic whine slipped from his lips and tears escaped his eyes.  
  
It was the power of validation. It was easy to ignore, to deny pain when no one else saw it, but recognition demanded acceptance; and so Draco broke down in agony and hurt, sobbing brokenly into Harry's shirt. Harry held him, stroking his back and hair, trying himself to come to grasp with the situation.  
  
Finally, Draco drew away, pulling his robes tightly around his nudity and determinedly avoiding Harry's searching eyes. A long, heavy silence set in.  
  
"Why didn't you tell me?," Harry asked carefully, kindly, gently.  
  
There was a pause before a wavering, broken voice answered, "I told you. . . I'm going to survive this war. I know. . . I know. The best thing to do would be to kill myself, so Voldemort won't have access to me, to deprive him of the power I give him. . . But I've been hurt too much by both sides. I won't kill myself for your side and I won't let myself be used unconditionally by his side. I told you. I'm on my side. I do what I can so I can survive. I can't trust anyone else."  
  
Draco looked up for a second, but his face instantly contorted in anger and pain upon seeing Harry's expression. "Don't you pity me! Don't you dare pity me!" He again tried to scramble to his feet, this time succeeding, though he still clung to the wall, hysteria fast encroaching. "I'm stronger than you! You may be more powerful, but I can ENDURE! Let's see you live through what I have." His voice was crazed and desperate, and he was groping his way along the wall instead of facing Harry.  
  
Harry stood and maneuvered himself to grasp Draco's wandering hands with his own, pulling him close so that he couldn't look anywhere except into his eyes. "And I told YOU, I told you that I was on your side. I know you didn't believe me at the time, I didn't even believe it myself. But it's true now. Draco. Draco, listen to me." He cupped Draco's face in his hands, gently forcing him to look him in the eyes.  
  
"I'm going to make this okay, I swear. I'm going to save you." And in that moment, Harry had never said anything so true, so dedicated. He had never wanted to save anyone like he wanted to save Draco right then. But Draco looked down, though nodding weakly, unbelievingly, anything to get Harry to back off. No one had ever been on his side, not even Pansy, and he didn't expect things to change now. Eventually, Harry helped him to the kitchens, where Dobby meekly got Draco a cup of whatever it was that he usually gave him to calm the shakes, but he didn't have the heart to question his broken companion anymore.  
  
Their prolonged silence was not an uncomfortable one - indeed, it would have been far more difficult to try to say anything, and, consequently, the silence was welcome by both parties. Harry finally deposited him at the portrait that guarded the Slytherin dorms, then Draco's thoughts were at long last allowed to coagulate. He was filled with a desire to kill himself, simply as a consequence of the fact that someone else knew; but he hadn't the energy. He hadn't the energy to do anything beyond continuing on as he always had. It was inertia in its worst possible manifestation: an object in motion will stay in motion.  
  
*  
  
Draco didn't kill himself. He fell asleep, as did Harry, though the former's fatigue allowed sleep to come far more readily. Harry spent hours in bed, lying awake, terrorized by what he now knew. Gradually, he began to feel that he had already lost all that was worth fight for, that he had already failed to protect what he was supposed to protecting, saving, whatever.  
  
He tried to catch Draco's eye the next day, during lunch and dinner, but the Slytherin proved quite skillful at inconspicuously avoiding his looks. He didn't know whether or not be relieved at Draco's ability to roll with the punches, no matter how debilitating, and just continue on.  
  
Desperate, he finally managed to corner Draco on Monday, in the dungeons before their afternoon classes (with help from the Marauders' Map). "Draco. Please. Talk to me."  
  
Reluctantly, Draco looked him in the eyes for the first time since Friday. He motioned with his head towards an empty classroom and then he followed Harry in. "What is it, Potter?," he asked emotionlessly.  
  
"Back to 'Potter', are we? Do you want me to go back to calling you 'Malfoy' then?" But Draco didn't react at all - he didn't even feel anything. It was as though by uncovering his deepest secrets, Harry had annihilated the emotions that those secrets had protected, the only emotions he had. He was numb, and grateful for it.  
  
When Draco didn't respond, Harry tried a different tactic. "Why did Voldemort hurt you so much more last time?"  
  
He actually found comfort in the wry smile that responded to his question. "Voldemort? Ha! It was my father who beat me into an inch of my life. For embarrassing the Malfoy name, he said. For acting a whore, he said. Like he should care. He never wanted children. He bred with Narcissa because Voldemort commanded him to, because Narcissa was the daughter of a Giver and it was hoped that her child would also be one." Draco's voice was now loosing its sarcastic cool and was growing both dangerous and manic, anger finally making its presence known. "And I was. Only you killed him, didn't you? Before he could take advantage of the opportunity I presented. But that didn't mean my father couldn't take advantage of me, rape me, use me to increase his power. But then Voldemort returned. Again, courtesy of you, and now I have a new master, a new master that I can still not escape. Why did Voldemort hurt me, you ask. Why did Voldemort hurt me? Because he can. Because it is the only way for him to get what he wants from me! I told you once, Potter, the only way to help me is to destroy HIM." Draco sounded positively deadly by this point; his eyes were flashing an incredible shade of blue and he had never felt so raw, as if he was just waiting, hoping, for someone to come and wipe his existence from this world.  
  
There was a deafening silence as the two stared at each other, but there was too much pain between them for any connection to be established. There was simply nothing more to be said. Finally, Draco gave a half hearted smile and departed, leaving Harry to wallow in his turbulent thoughts.  
  
*  
  
Suddenly, there was a noticeable change in the public interaction between Potter and Malfoy: the two avoided each other like the plague, to the point that both were willing to walk away when their social circles clashed. It would have perhaps caused more raised eyebrows than it did, had it not been for the fact that most of the students were preoccupied with the escalating violence taking place outside of Hogwarts.  
  
Draco was used to operating on autopilot, and the numbness was almost welcome, but the same could not be said of Harry. Harry was gradually falling into a deep depression and a sense of hopelessness that his fading anger could no longer lift and inspire him beyond, leaving him to spend an increasing amount of time in morose thought and restless sleep. Hermione and Ron were both growing concerned and had made numerous attempts to rouse him from his stupor, but to no avail.  
  
Draco stopped informing Harry of what nights he left Hogwarts to go to Voldemort, and Harry hadn't the heart to ask, though he watched the Marauders' Map every night, just to make sure Draco returned on the nights he did disappear. He received only one owl from him, with one line printed on a small slip of parchment: V attacks during X-mas hols. But all Harry could feel was relief that there wouldn't be many other students at Hogwarts over Christmas to die with him.  
  
In the end, it took something drastic to jolt him into action. Two weeks before winter break, Ron and Ginny were called out of class and instructed to convene in Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster, looking old and worn, told them that their parents had been killed in a death eater raid on the Burrow. Ron relayed the information to Harry in shell shocked monosyllables while he was packing to go to the twins' apartment, where the rest of the Weasley family was assembling to mourn.  
  
The very day that Ron and Ginny left, only a day after learning of the death of their parents, the Headmaster called Harry into his office.  
  
"Harry," Dumbledore greeted him soberly, all youth finally drained from his eyes. Yes, he was the game master and had spent decades using people like pawns, but it was a job that had taken its toll. Like Draco had once said to Harry, when Harry had asked how he found the strength to continue, "It's a thankless job, but someone's got to do it." Someone had to be the game master, and the only person suitable for the job was someone who would hate having to do it. And Dumbledore did hate what he had to do - he hated allowing horrible things to happen to good people and he hated turning gentle people into killers, but someone had to do it. It was, after all, for the greater good.  
  
"Headmaster," Harry responded icily.  
  
With a sigh, "You know what happened. And I suspect you are aware that the final confrontation is looming near on the horizon now."  
  
Harry nodded; he could feel it coming. Even without Draco's warning, he could feel it in his bones, in his scar, indeed his whole body was aching to fulfill prophesy. To kill or be killed. As Draco had said, it was only a matter of time now. Dumbledore continued, looking defeated and resigned, "Harry, we've done all we can. We've stalled as long as possible. I know it's not fair, I know you think that I have failed you. But I also know that you CAN defeat Voldemort, if you really try, and fulfill your destiny. You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it. It is not my place to tell you what to do, not after I have betrayed your trust so grossly, but I do know that you can do this. I hate to say this, and I know you hate me for it too, but the rest is up to you. If your hatred is the price of winning this war, then it is a price I am willing to pay."  
  
Without moving a muscle, Harry resisted the urge to kill him. The Headmaster had told him so little, and now here he was, leaving it all in Harry's lap - despite all of the Order's efforts, despite Sirius' and Molly's and Author's efforts, it still came down him. But he knew, he really KNEW, that he wasn't strong enough to confront Voldemort. If he did so now, he would surely be destroyed, and with him the hope of the wizarding world - and maybe the whole world. So he answered Dumbledore truthfully, stonily, glaring him in the eyes "I'm not strong enough. A confrontation now would kill me."  
  
Dumbledore nodded slowly and, as always, Harry had the impression that he knew more than he was saying. "There is a way, Harry. If you search your soul, you'll realize it too."  
  
His hate became too much to contain and he rose to his feet. Quietly, viciously, sarcastically, he hissed, "With all due respect, sir, FUCK YOU." With that, he spun on his heal and left the room. Dumbledore leaned back in his seat, steepling pointer fingers and running his eyes across the room as if for the last time. His pawns were all in position, now it was only a matter of waiting to see how the final game would play out.  
  
*  
  
Word of the Weasleys' death spread quickly through the school. The day after Harry's confrontation with Dumbledore, Draco stopped him in the hallway, despite the presence of passing students.  
  
"Harry."  
  
Harry ceased his single minded walking and turned to Draco, who tried to give a supportive smile, but failed miserably. "I'm sorry. I know how you felt - feel - about. . . them."  
  
Harry looked at him for a moment, expressionlessly, emotionlessly taking in the blonde's tired beauty; then he nodded and walked away. A little hurt, Draco frowned and continued in the opposite direction, completely missing the fact that Harry abruptly came to halt and slowly turned to thoughtfully watch Draco's departure. Dumbledore's words were called forth and allowed to echo through Harry's mind. "You have the means at your disposal, you just have to recognize it, and be willing to use it."  
  
When Draco disappeared from view, Harry ran to Hermione's room, suddenly knowing what he had to do.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Dum dum, dum dum. To be continued. . . 


	8. Love and War

Reviewers: Again, your unkind stream thins to a trickle. So am I again reduced to begging? Please, play nice. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and expect the next installment soon (I certainly do)!  
  
Ass covering clause: I do not own Harry Potter or any thing related to the Harry Potter universe. And if your not interested in slash, your time to leave is fast running out!  
  
Chapter 8: Love and War  
  
"If I could be who you wanted, if I could be who you wanted all the time."  
  
- Radiohead, Fake Plastic Trees  
  
"Hermione!," Harry banged on Hermione's door. She had barely left her room since learning about Molly and Arthur's death, though she had tried to be strong for Ron and Ginny; but now that they were gone, she had the house elves bring up food and she even agreed to Dumbledore's suggestion that she take a few days off to mourn. Harry had tried to talk to her a couple of times, but she hadn't wanted to and he hadn't the will power to insist. However, now he really did have to insist. "Hermione! I really need to talk to you!"  
  
Finally, she unlocked her door and let him in, before going listlessly to her bed. She looked disheveled and her eyes were puffy and sported dark smudges that indicated both crying and an inability to sleep. Rubbing her face in a way disturbingly reminiscent of Draco's habit of doing the same thing, she asked, "What is it, Harry?"  
  
"'Mione. I know that this is hard for you, it is for me too. But I need you to come with me tonight to the Restricted Section and show me what books you found that information about the Givers in."  
  
Hermione blankly blinked at him for a moment. It had been a month since she had told him and Ron about what she had learned and there had been relatively little discussion on the matter since - she had tried to ask, but Harry had insisted that there was nothing he could do, for a time being anyway. "Why?"  
  
Harry looked uncomfortable. "I think I know how to defeat Voldemort."  
  
Hermione blinked at him again, but then the pieces all fell into place, realization hit, and an expression of horror emerged. "No! You can't! Harry!," she cried.  
  
"Hermione! You don't understand!," Harry defended, wishing for nothing more than to be able to escape her accusing glare. "Voldemort is going to attack Hogwarts over the holidays and I'm not strong enough to survive another confrontation with him! This is my only chance! This is everyone's only chance." Harry moved to sit next to Hermione, who was cradling her head in her hands. "Hermione, if I can kill Voldemort, then it will set him free. He said so himself."  
  
She lifted her head to look at Harry. "Him?," she whispered emotionally. "You know who he is? You've met him?"  
  
Harry nodded miserably. He knew he was betraying Draco's secrets, but everything was falling apart and spinning out of control and everyday rules of conduct seemed to longer apply. Besides, he would soon have to ask something of Draco that would make betraying his secrets look like child's play. "Hermione," he whined. "He's a student here."  
  
Hermione's mouth dropped open and her face contorted in pain and dismay. "No. . . who - no, don't tell me. I don't want to know."  
  
After a long moment of silence, Harry asked again. "So, will you help me?"  
  
After a long pause, she nodded reluctantly, joining Harry in his pact with the devil.  
  
*  
  
That night they took Harry's invisibility cloak and broke into the Restricted Section, the dustiest and creepiest section of the library. Hermione pulled out the two books that had substantial relevant bits then sat with a sober face, watching Harry read.  
  
The first book contained a chapter about Givers and made Harry want to kick himself for not having done the original research himself - or, at least, for not having asked Hermione for more information. The ancient volume gave enough detail that, had he known, he would've been able to recognize Draco for what he was. Most obviously, some Givers were able to use their magical power to heal both themselves and others. Had Draco known he wouldn't do the research himself?  
  
The second book, entitled Ancient Sex Magic, was more practically informative, though as disturbing as one would predict. The chapter on the Power Transfer Spell (the translation provided for the original, unpronounceable label) described the spell and steps required to drain the life power from a given individual. The spell itself was quite simple, requiring only a long string of words and a dozen candles - like most ancient magic, it didn't even require a wand. The more difficult part, however, had to do the drainee's state of mind. Her (the pronoun used in the text) mind had to be open and her mental barriers down, which would allow her energy to flow from her to her drainer. As any additional magic would interfere with the Power Transfer Spell, there were only two ways to do this in a manner that would accomplish the correct affect - through extreme pain or extreme pleasure. And so Harry learned why Draco always returned to Hogwarts beaten to a bloody pulp.  
  
The chapter ended with a short section on the use of Givers in this spell. It didn't say anything much beyond what Harry had already been able to figure out by that point, though it did claim that most Power Highs lasted three to five hours. It also pointed out that it was actually easier to bring Givers into the required state of mind than it was to bring normal people to the same state, merely by virtue of the fact that Givers were exceptionally sensitive (a fact that Harry had noted himself from the first book). Finally, he shut the hefty volume with a loud thud and a strangled sigh. Hermione, who had fallen asleep in her seat, jerked awake. "Hmph?"  
  
"That was horrible," He said, feeling awful.  
  
Hermione stretched and nodded. "I know." Then she settled again and carefully studied at Harry. "Harry, are you sure you want to do this?"  
  
"I don't think I have any other choice," he answered tiredly.  
  
"Well, do you think you're going to be able to go through with it?"  
  
Harry briefly wondered what she was asking, then. . . Oh. He blushed as he remembered Draco's dance a few weeks ago. The horror of that night, of discovering Draco's secret, had banished the memory from his mind, but now it returned with a vengeance - thoughts of Draco's lean body and long legs and soft, perfect skin - and he was embarrassed to find himself growing hard. He shifted uncomfortably. "I don't think that'll be a problem."  
  
Hermione gave a weak smile.  
  
*  
  
Draco received a school owl from Harry the next morning in the Great Hall, asking to meet him at eleven that night in the Astronomy Tower. He didn't know whether to be worried or pleased, as he felt a tantalizing rush of both emotions. He'd missed Harry over the last few weeks, he'd missed the bantering, the near honesty, just. . . Harry. It was much harder to go back to a life of isolation after having. . . had someone. He knew Harry didn't feel the same way, and he certainly didn't expect him to, but it was nice to feel something - anything - that wasn't anger or hatred or fear, or desperation. So he allowed himself to hope, though for what he didn't know. Maybe just to be allowed to fight by his side in the final battle. Maybe Harry wanted his help.  
  
So he showed up at the Astronomy Tower at ten 'til eleven, where Harry was already waiting, staring out the window.  
  
"Potter." He hid his nervousness well, reclining gracefully against the wall, a small but genuine smile on his lips.  
  
Harry turned to look at him, and was distressed by the pang of lust that struck his body. He didn't want to want Malfoy beyond the degree to which he had to. He forced himself to straighten up and approach the other boy, his face somber. "Draco."  
  
Draco grimaced at the expression Harry bore. "Let me guess. Something horrible."  
  
"I guess it depends on one's point of view. But from yours. . . probably." His voice was tight and pained, and Draco was seized with apprehension.  
  
"Well, lets not beat around the bush then. What is it?"  
  
Fuck. Fuck. Oh God, whatever, give me the strength to do this. . . "Time is running out right?," Harry began with a waver. Draco nodded cautiously. "And I'm not strong enough, see? I can't defeat Voldemort like this, I wouldn't even survive a confrontation with him in my normal state." He paused, hoping Draco would catch on, but the blonde continued to look at him expectantly. Was he really going to have to ask?  
  
"I thought you could help me with that." He paused again, but Draco showed no sign of understanding. In truth, it was an aspect of his life that he kept sufficiently repressed that there was no way he could easily draw the conclusion that Harry wanted him to.  
  
"I thought maybe the Power Transfer Spell." He said unhappily, slightly exasperated.  
  
Draco barely reacted. His skin went from pale to pasty, as he blanched considerably, but not a single muscle twitched. Finally, almost unbelievingly, "What?" His mind was reeling to the point that he couldn't form a single thought. This was not something he had allowed himself to consider - or, rather, he had, but not in years.  
  
Harry's eyes fell to the floor, no longer able to meet Draco's, and guilt stabbed at his heart. "I'm sorry," he whispered.  
  
"You're sorry? You're sorry! You're. . .," his voice broke as he choked on his own words, his face contorting with hurt and confusion. Harry reached out to him, his instinct to comfort, but Draco jerked away and stumbled back towards the wall.  
  
"No, I. . ." His legs were shaking so badly that he lowered himself to sit on the floor, where be bowed his head covered his face with his hands. Harry cautiously approached him, then joined him on the floor. Still and silent, they both sat there for a long time. Harry was numb, but Draco's emotions raged in him so quickly that he felt quite dizzy. Eventually, they stilled and made way for an agonizing realization.  
  
"Harry. . .," he started softly, and Harry brought his eyes up to Draco's, where the beautiful blue orbs were begging wordlessly. "I. . . I'm in love you. Please don't make me. . . do this." And he didn't lie, he was in love with Harry, he had just realized it. It was, of course, inevitable. He had been so abused, so isolated, that he had fell for Harry like a ton of bricks - for Harry had showed him sympathy, however barbed, and Harry had seen him for what he really was, more so than even Pansy had ever been allowed to see.  
  
Harry wanted to cry; he wanted to rage against a world that put him in this position, where once again he was going to have to take advantage of this delicate creature and to wound him powerfully. "It's the only way," he pleaded in return.  
  
He watched as Draco closed his eyes for a long moment, hating to see the pain disappear as composure returned. He wanted to see and feel Draco's pain, for it was far worse to watch him push it inside, where it was surely cutting deeply. He wanted his to be the arms that even now Draco had wrapped around him, he wanted to be the one to hold and protect him. He didn't want to be the one that was delivering this fatal blow.  
  
When Draco finally spoke, his voice almost sounded normal, but the strain was unmistakable. "You know what you'll have to do?"  
  
Trying to sound convincing, Harry replied, "Draco, it doesn't have to be that bad. I don't have to hurt you, there's another way. I -"  
  
"NO! Harry, don't, please. I don't want it the other way, that would be worse." At Harry look of incredulity, desperation seeped into his voice again. "You don't understand. I can take the physical pain, I'm good at that, I've spent most of my life dealing with it. But I can't. . . I can't take these emotions. It would hurt more the other way. I'm. . . I'm weak, Harry." His last confession was whispered and, with closed eyes, he began to thump his skull against the stone wall.  
  
Harry scrambled nearer, pulling Draco to him and holding the shaking body for a calming moment, before allowing it to draw away. He gazed into Draco's tortured eyes. He heard Draco's words, and even understood them, but, ironically, he lacked Draco's streak of martyrdom (the one that correlated suffering with strength), and he could not bring himself to honor the blonde's request. He could not hurt Draco, not directly, not in the obvious, undeniable way that Draco was pleading for.  
  
He gently stroked a soft cheek and tenderly said, "Draco, I can't hurt you that way. Surely you can understand that." Draco's face crumbled in defeat. It felt fated, somehow, that he would be brought down as low as he could go, and he hadn't the strength to defy the tides and fight against this series of losses. Again, Harry watched Draco's eyes close and his features wipe themselves of dismay. When he reopened his eyes, there was not a trace of emotion anywhere on his face, and then he awkwardly struggled to his feet.  
  
"I understand. . . And am I correct in assuming that you'll need me to apparate you to Voldemort's lair?" Harry nodded - just because Draco had learned to apparate despite being underage did not mean he had. Draco continued, "Okay then. Let me know when. I'm next expected on Sunday." With that, Harry was left sitting miserably on the ground, as he quickly departed the room.  
  
*  
  
Draco walked determinedly to his room. Only once there, and after calmly casting a silencing spell, did he allow himself release. He picked up a wooden chair that rested near his bed and hit it against the wall. It broke satisfyingly, and what didn't he then threw against the wall. Next he grabbed a pitcher full of water and also flung it with all his strength. But it wasn't enough, like blowing on flames when a full on fire extinguishing spell was required. He paced for a moment in frustration before punching his fist into the stone wall. Then again, and again, until his fist dripped blood and certainly sported a couple of broken knuckles; but it was a start. He intently, morbidly studied his fist as he healed it - for the pain had helped, if only by drowning out the agonizing emotions that he feared were on the verge of driving him insane.  
  
He whipped around to where the shards of thick glass lay, being all that was left of the pitcher. Kneeling down next to them, he tore his robes off then gently pulled his shirt up to expose his pale stomach and the bottom half of his chest. He carefully chose the biggest shard, then he viciously stabbed himself in the soft area at the bottom of the ribcage, where the ribs no longer met in the middle to protect the precious organs underneath. He took the pain silently, with a heaving chest; then he dropped the shard and lay back on the floor with closed eyes, savoring the pain that cleared his mind. Finally, when be began to see spots, when he felt so weak and dizzy that he knew he would pass out soon from blood loss (and whatever other damage he had caused), he brought his trembling hands to his wound. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla," he rasped. "Fuck you, Potter. You haven't killed me yet."  
  
With that, feeling much better, if completely numb, Draco dragged himself to his bed and let himself pass out.  
  
*  
  
Harry returned to the Gryffindor dorms on lead feet. He was depressed at what he had done to Draco, and he wanted nothing more that to mend the situation or to comfort the blonde, but neither was in his capacity to do. So instead, he sat heavily in the empty Gryffidor common area and cast his mind to the future. When was he going to go through with this? With everything? Draco had said he was expected again on Sunday. Right now it was the wee hours of Thursday morning. Did he want to do it before or after Sunday? (Sunday was obviously not an option as it was virtually guaranteed that every major death eater in the country would be there to attend the meeting with their leader.) His instinct was to put it off until after Sunday - he didn't feel ready and he was scared. He didn't want to die. But he owed it to Draco, didn't he, to end it as soon as possible? Couldn't he at least spare him another night with Voldemort? In the end, guilt and devotion made drove his decision: Saturday night it would be.  
  
*  
  
Draco received another school owl the next morning at breakfast. It read, "Saturday, 9 pm. Your room. Sorry. H." He crumbled up the small piece of paper impassively, then vaporized it. Fine, Potter, I'll play your game. Just don't be surprised when I lose.  
  
*  
  
The next two and a half days were actuallz worse for Harry than Draco. The latter had managed to wrap himself up in a protective cocoon, existing automatically and repressing all emotion. Harry, on the other hand, was extremely nervous, to the point that he gave himself several panic attacks. There was little he could do to prepare for his confrontation with Voldemort, so he focused instead on what he would have to do with Draco, but that too sent him into anxiety. He'd never had sex before, let alone sex with a boy. The extent of his experience with sex was, in fact, limited to some minor kissing with Cho during fifth year; though he attempted now to buffer this with "information" and advice from all manner of sources (there had even been an unbearable conversation between him and Hermione on the topic). Now he had bring Draco to such a state of ecstasy that his barriers would drop, allowing his energy to escape and be absorbed by Harry. If he failed, would he be able to resort to torture? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know, but the pressure was making it hard for him to think clearly, turning classes and quidditch practice into an absolute nightmare. Of course, it didn't help matters that Draco was steadfastly ignoring him, when all he wanted to was to make sure that that the Slytherin was okay, and maybe to be told how to do this right. But, then again, maybe Draco didn't know either.  
  
And so Saturday arrived. With time, it became Saturday afternoon, then evening. At twenty 'til eight, Harry grabbed his bag of candles, wrapped himself in his invisibility cloak, and snuck to the entrance of the Slytherin dorms. There he waited until a first year whispered the password and entered, allowing him to follow the small girl in. Then he made his way to Draco's room and knocked. Draco opened the door, standing aside as he waited for Harry to remove his cloak.  
  
"Hi," Harry muttered shyly, taking a quick and curious look at Draco's room. It was sparse but tasteful, and his big bed (with green silk sheets!) had been hauled into the center of the room and ringed by twelve lit candles.  
  
"What's in there?," Draco asked, pointing to Harry's book bag.  
  
"Uhhh. . . candles?"  
  
Draco actually smiled at that, if only faintly. "You didn't think I'd be prepared?"  
  
"I don't know what I was thinking," Harry confessed, feeling rather muddled. "I don't even know what I'm thinking right now."  
  
Draco nodded. Then he turned towards his closet and removed his school robes.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Oh, I'm bad, I'm bad, I'm so bad I'm Michael Jackson. Since I know how much everyone is just ACHING for the next chapter, I hereby threaten to delay its posting if I do not receive reviews! I know you want it! It's going to be good, great, excellent, I promise! 


	9. An Exchange and a Gift

Sigh. . . if only I could bring myself to care about being such a perv. Oh well, here it is, what everyone's been waiting for. But BE WARNED. Most of the coming chapter contains very GRAPHIC sex (slash in nature, of course).  
  
Disclaimer: Harry and Draco are not mine.  
  
Chapter 9: An Exchange and a Gift  
  
"It feels like lightening running through my veins, every time I look at you."  
  
- David Gray, Please Forgive Me  
  
Draco removed his school robes and hung them up, revealing dark grey pants and a tight shirt. Harry's chest felt suddenly tight, and his own pants even tighter. Draco arched an eyebrow before using his wand to cast a silencing and locking spell, then he turned towards Harry.  
  
His head tilted and his face expressionless, ungelled hair falling at an angle, Draco untucked his shirt: but when he slowly began to unbutton it, panic and nervousness suddenly seized Harry. This was not how it was supposed to be, not how he wanted this to be, anyway. This was. . . frightening. Sexy, yes, but scary as hell. So he forced himself into motion, stepping close to Draco and stilling the elegant hands with his own, and gazing into amazing blue eyes. He gave a weak smile before leaning up, wrapping his arms around the taller boy, and kissing him.  
  
Cho had nothing on Draco. Harry felt a shock of electricity run through him and he shivered, causing Draco to break the kiss and look at him with concern. "Are you alright?," he asked, no longer able to keep up his façade of indifference. Harry had kissed him. Harry had kissed him! Voldemort had never kissed him (thank Merlin), and his father's violent kisses could only be defined as such because their lips met. But Harry had really kissed him.  
  
Harry retrieved an arm from Draco's back and held it up to show it to him: it was covered in goose bumps. "I've never done this before," he whispered huskily, nervously.  
  
"It's not so hard," Draco soothed, tracing his fingertips along Harry's cheek, eyebrow, ear, scar. Draco's delicate caress along his scar made him shudder unexpectedly with desire and he leaned in for another kiss, this one deeper, longer, and more passionate, and his arms tightened around the sexy body.  
  
When they finally broke apart, panting and needing air, it was Draco's turn to smile shyly. He was in love with Harry, and here he was with Harry, and he wasn't going to make it worse than it already was by forcing himself not to enjoy it (though a certain self defence mechanism had certainly been trying to convince him for the last couple days to do just that). For that night, and just for that night, he was going to forget that Harry didn't love him, that Harry was doing this to defeat Voldemort; and it would be easy to let his mind pretend to believe what it wanted desperately to be true - that Harry was here, making love to him, saving him from the ghosts and nightmares that haunted his life, swearing to never leave.  
  
"You're so beautiful," Harry whispered, rubbing noses with Draco.  
  
"That's what Voldemort says," Draco replied reflexively, then turning his face away in embarrassment as Harry pulled back slightly in shock, though his arms did not drop. It was just what Voldemort would say right before shattering that beauty with blood and bruises.  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry choked out hoarsely.  
  
"Don't be," Draco said, pulling Harry closer to rest Harry's chin on his thin shoulder and to escape searching emerald eyes. Harry nuzzled Draco's neck and ear and soft shiny hair, inhaling contently the smell of vanilla and fresh grass. "You smell good. Does anyone ever tell you that?"  
  
Draco shook his head and Harry straightened to kiss him again, allowing his hands to travel down the firm back then under Draco's shirt. Draco inhaled sharply at the contact and he forced himself not to tremble with pleasure and excitement, and to focus instead on slipping Harry's robes off him. Harry smiled at him, then continued unbuttoning Draco's shirt where he'd left off, exposing a perfect expanse of skin and two dusty pink nipples. He pushed the shirt past ivory shoulders and let it fall to the ground.  
  
Then he looked back into Draco's eyes and watched his face for reactions as he caressed the silky skin. Draco was finding it hard to breathe, and his face was flushing beautifully - he couldn't help it really, every nerve in his body felt inflamed and overly sensitive. A small voice in his mind explained that this was the same reason he hurt so much when Voldemort and his father beat him, and tortured him, and raped him. He started to grimace, but all bad thoughts fled his mind (and a gasp escaped his lips), when Harry rolled a nipple between his calloused fingers.  
  
Harry's heart melted to see Draco like this - so vulnerable, so open, so willing. . . in such rare pleasure. He too was allowing his mind to forget why he was here, why he was falling into deep blue eyes, pink lips, and white skin. The fantasy was much better than the harsh reality.  
  
Harry pulled away gently, with a mischievous smile on his lips. He quickly removed his own t-shirt in time to see Draco carefully step past the candle ring on sock clad feet and sit nervously on the bed. Harry used his wand to off the overhead light. He toed off his own shoes, then, after a moment's hesitation, awkwardly stripped off his pants and followed Draco to the bed.  
  
"Gryffindor through and through," Draco commented with regards to Harry's red and gold boxers. Harry chuckled.  
  
"Actually, I was almost placed in Sytherin," Harry replied, sitting next to the shirtless figure.  
  
"I can't say I'm surprised," Draco replied sadly.  
  
Harry winced and, turning towards Draco, soothingly stroked his hair and back. There was nothing to say to that. After several long moments, Draco's body began to respond to and lean into his touches. Harry brought his other hand up to Draco's face and tilted it towards his own. After a searching look, he tenderly kissed him, gently nibbling on his soft lower lip and causing Draco to mewl faintly. Harry had never heard anything sound so sexy. His erection throbbed impatiently and he himself moaned with desire before lightly pressed Draco down on the bed.  
  
Harry moved down slightly to take a nipple between his teeth, making Draco arch up towards him, and he felt Draco's nimble fingers in his hair, then on his back and neck. He lapped at Draco's skin until he reached his navel, kneeling between Draco's legs, then he moved lower and nuzzled the grey pants that covered the evidence of Draco's arousal, and Draco arched up again.  
  
"May I?," he asked huskily, looking to Draco and his fingers hovering over the button of his pants. Draco was startled out of what was quickly becoming a lust and pleasure filled daze, and he mustered the coordination to nod weakly.  
  
Harry greedily fumbled with Draco's button and zipper, then Draco managed to lift his hips to allow Harry to pull them off. He cast them away, beyond the flickering candles, then gazed lustfully and admiringly at the handsome body below him. He stroked tense, quivering white thighs, evoking soft whimpers from the other boy.  
  
Finally, he let his eyes feast on Draco's erection, bobbing slightly and gently oozing precum. He was somewhat surprised to find his mouth watering, never before having been able to understand how anyone could enjoy giving head. He bent down and kissed the smooth skin of Draco's inner thighs, then he nuzzled his balls, savoring his lovers heady smell and erratic breathing, before turning to the core of Draco's desire.  
  
He planted wet, sloppy kisses along its length, licked its tip, then took into his mouth. Draco gasped and arched up reflexively, a little violently, and Harry gripped his hips to stop from gagging, then eased them back onto the bed before continuing his eager ministrations.  
  
Harry continued for some time, until he heard Draco pant, "Harry, stop. I'm too close, I can't, don't, I. . ."  
  
"Shhh. . .," Harry replied, dragging himself up and along Draco body to gaze into beautiful, unfocused eyes. "I understand," he whispered before kissing him deeply. Then he pulled up, again to search Draco's eyes. "You're amazing, you know?"  
  
Harry pulled his boxers off, then he used his hand to gently part Draco's legs so that they were splayed wantonly. He reached for his wand then used it to create a coating of lubricant on his fingers. He looked back at Draco, seeing the vague awareness in his eyes, and Draco nodded perceptively. Harry smiled at him, though his muscles were feeling weak. Never tearing his eyes away from Draco's, he nestled his hand between supple, firm cheeks then rubbed the tight entrance there. Draco whimpered and closed his eyes in apprehension.  
  
"Shhh. . .," Harry soothed, raining weightless kisses on Draco's face as he spoke. "It's okay. It's only me. I won't hurt you. Draco, please open your eyes." Draco opened his eyes hesitantly and Harry smiled at him. "I won't hurt you. But I need you to relax." Again, Draco nodded faintly.  
  
Harry rubbed his entrance again, then slowly pressed two fingers inside. "Don't tense up, Draco, please," Harry begged, his voice laced with concern. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if he hurt his lover now. He massaged the tight passage until its grip eased, then pushed further in and curled his fingers (blessed be books!), and was rewarded by a sudden gasp and a sharply arched body.  
  
Harry repeated the action and Draco's body again responded. "Harry. . .," Draco whined deliriously, though a flavor of fear could still be recognized, his mind still attempting to resist the betrayal of his body. "How do want to do this?," Harry asked gently.  
  
Draco closed his eyes tightly for a moment before opening them again, tears sparkling in them. "Like a woman. . . not like an animal." Voldemort's words were thumping behind his eardrums, and his blood was racing with alarm and confused lust.  
  
Harry was cut deeply by his words, and he hated that it had to be this way. He eased his fingers out of Draco and slicked up his own arousal. He stroked Draco's erection and whispered, "You're no woman, Dacro."  
  
He lifted Draco's legs over his shoulders and tenderly pressed himself between Draco's cheeks, allowing Draco to squeeze his eyes shut. "And you're no animal." Then he pushed in slowly.  
  
Draco's breath hitched and his hands clawed at the sheets, his mind spinning in pain and pleasure. All of Harry's thoughts were driven from his mind, his sight was almost driven from before his eyes, and he breathed heavily. They were frozen like that for a long moment, until Harry's mind sharpened enough to whisper hoarsely, "Draco? Are you alright?"  
  
Draco nodded tensely. "Move," he gasped.  
  
Harry needed no other encouragement and began to rock into him, steadily, neither too rough nor too gentle, and neither fast nor slow, though the paced did gradually increase until both boys were groaning and panting and covered in a light sheen of sweat. Harry gripped Draco's arousal and began to pump in rhythm with his own movements.  
  
From a world of unimaginable pleasure, Draco moaned brokenly, "Say the words Harry!," pulling Harry back to a barely comprehensible reality that he had forgotten entirely. Hardly thinking, he muttered the words, "Filio energia donne mae. Te estado mia. Donne mae tuto che esto. Donne mae. Donne mae. Te estado mia. Energia mia."  
  
Draco cried out and came on Harry's chest, tightening around him, pushing him over the edge too, and he emptied himself into Draco with a few final thrusts. But there was something noticeably peculiar about his come down, for while he felt suddenly drained and exhausted, he also felt a great influx of unnatural energy - like what Harry imagined a drug induced strength would feel like. He looked down in anxiety at Draco, whose eyes were closed and face was expressionless. Was he asleep?  
  
In panic, he pulled out, but the energy transfer did not stop. He could feel himself getting stronger and most artificially hyper. But his mind demanded sleep, and he was frightened, and he wanted nothing more than to join his beautiful companion in sleep. Draco rolled onto his side, facing away from Harry, and coiled into a fetal position. Harry gave into temptation and curled up behind him, skin on soft skin. Only for ten minutes. . .  
  
*  
  
Forty minutes later, Harry's eyelids crept open, blinked twice, then peeled back suddenly.  
  
"Shit!," he cried, sitting up so suddenly that Draco was pushed off the bed (luckily, all the candles had extinguished themselves). Without giving a second look to the blonde, he shot off the bed and began to frantically dress. Draco stood still, in all his naked glory, watching him stonily until Harry hissed frantically, "Get dressed! We've already wasted enough time!"  
  
Expressionlessly, tonelessly, "I couldn't agree more." But he dressed, though far more languidly than Harry, giving the latter a great deal of time to tap his foot impatiently. Harry was, after all, a man on a mission.  
  
Harry wrapped them both in his invisibility cloak, which didn't quite fit, but would have to do, and dragged Draco out of the Slytherin dorms down to the Hogsmeade passage, supporting Draco's weight for much of the way. Once in the dark passage and still under the cloak, Harry squeezed Draco's hand. "Are you strong enough to do this?"  
  
"Of course, I'm the human battery," Draco replied sarcastically.  
  
"How do you know about batteries?," Harry asked, too nervous not to prolong the moment.  
  
"I ran away to the Muggle world the summer before last. . . and I learned a lot. I honestly don't know which world is worse." In Harry's state, it almost sounded like the voice of god condemning the entire earth.  
  
"Neither place is that bad," he objected weakly.  
  
"That is where you are wrong," Draco returned, before apparating them both away.  
  
*  
  
Draco had told him that Voldemort was, for this week, holed up in a big, old house in the suburbs of London, but from what Harry could tell, they had apparated into a cold, musty smelling dungeon (in didn't help that the sex smells were getting rather ripe underneath the invisibility cloak). The dungeon appeared empty, but that was not surprising as death eaters were rarely allowed in the dungeon except for explicit purposes - courtesy of the fact that Voldemort trusted no one and that his hubris forbid him from suspecting anyone would have the audacity to attack him, now that he was at the height of his power. Consequently, any death eaters would, conveniently, be in the house above.  
  
"You can go back now, Malfoy," Harry whispered distractedly. His scar was tingling painfully and he had the distinct feeling that finding Voldemort now would be incredibly easy. Voldemort. He shuddered.  
  
Draco shuddered with rage, but Harry wasn't even looking at him. "Fuck you, Potter, I'm not leaving," he hissed.  
  
That made Harry look at him. "I'm not going to confront him while you're here. You're a liability, you can barely stand, and forcing me to defend you would only kill us both. If you want to be free, then leave."  
  
Draco was so furious at Harry's words and deeply wounded by the fact that Harry didn't even appear to be saying them to hurt him. "I hate you, Potter. Seeing you die would almost be worth it." And with that, he apparated, leaving Potter all alone in his invisibility cloak.  
  
Harry took a deep, shaky breath, then headed down the corridor that he somehow knew led the way to Voldemort. The dungeon, however, proved to be huge, and it ended up taking a good five minutes of walking before it led somewhere that wasn't a cell. But it did eventually lead into a large stone room, lit with numerous torches and a large fireplace, where the one and only Voldemort, looking like the devil incarnate (provided it was a snake incarnation), was talking to a translucent floating head.  
  
Harry waited for overgrown man serpent and the head to finish talking, not wanting the head to send for reinforcements. When the conversation ended, there was a terrifying moment in which Voldemort appeared to inspect the corridor entrance, where Harry was standing, but he seemed to decide that nothing was there and so walked across the room to where a hideous gothic throne rested.  
  
Once he was seated, Harry tiptoed in the center of the room, then whipped out his wand and yelled, "Avada Kada-!"  
  
But he wasn't able too finish as his wand was snatched from his fist a something quite heavy and firm smacked into him, knocking him to his knees - he had been so focused on Voldemort that he had failed to register the great snake that had been coiled motionlessly near the fireplace. Harry didn't even have time to recover before Nagini wrapped tightly around his arms and torso. He tried to struggle, but it didn't stop the snake from forming a second coil around his neck; in fact it only increased the speed at which he was rapidly loosing consciousness.  
  
"Enough!," Voldemort hissed, and the death grip on Harry loosened, then disappeared entirely. Harry looked up at the grotesque thing standing before him through the black spots of near asphyxiation. His wand was pointed at Harry, his other hand holding Harry's wand, and an unpleasant sneer was plastered to his face.  
  
"Well, look what we have here. What an agreeable surprise. Did you know I was just planning on coming to get you one of these days? Now you've come to me instead. Impatient, are we? Well. . . No need to wait anymore. Crucio!"  
  
"Agh!," Harry screamed. And screamed, and screamed. He screamed until he was hoarse and he thought he would never stop. He withered and wretched and shuddered in agony, until he would have sold his soul and those of everyone he had ever loved - indeed, the souls of the whole world - just to end the pain. He would have died a thousand times to stop the torture that blinded his mind and racked every nerve.  
  
The pain finally faded, though his body continued to spasm in imagined agony and he hadn't the power of thought to remember his own name. "You have defied me for the last time, Potter. Now say goodbye."  
  
"Nunh," was all the scarcely coherent boy could manage. He could barely open his eyes.  
  
"Good enough. Avada Ka-!"  
  
"AVADA KADAVRA!," Draco shouted and a green shock of power arched from his wand. He did this, fully knowing that he was still too weak and drained to successfully cast such a demanding spell on even a reasonably competent wizard, let alone Voldemort. But he had had his revenge, watching in angry satisfaction as Harry writhed and thrashed in pain, and he neither wanted Voldemort to be free of his nemesis nor did he want Harry to die. He both loved and hated Harry Potter, and he didn't know what he thought of the Boy- Who-Lived, but he did know that he would die for him.  
  
Voldemort faltered for a moment, but recovered almost immediately. "You lying, back stabbing whore!," he roared. "CRUCIO!"  
  
And then it was Draco's turn to fall to the ground with a sickening crack as his knees hit the stone floor, his wand clattering away. Draco's body arched and was taken by a progression of seizures and convulsions. He bit his lip until his mouth filled with blood, but he didn't cry out. It was the game he always played with Voldemort, the game he always lost, in the end, but was somehow determined not to lose this last time. He accomplished this effort with a fierce, all consuming focus that drove the away the pain, the awareness of his surroundings, and all manner of lucidity.  
  
The seconds ticked by, turning into a minute, but still Voldemort did not let up, his face twisting with perverse pleasure and profound hatred. And Voldemort did hate Draco - he hated him for having power in simply being indispensable, and for that he tortured him, and would not be satisfied until he heard him scream; for that he kept Draco under the curse even after he had clearly lost consciousness.  
  
When Harry's eyes finally recovered their capacity to focus, the first thing to fall in sharp relief was Draco's wand. He was barely able to register what was happening to Draco (mostly only aware of Voldemort being distracted from him). He forced himself to single mindedly pull himself - inch, really - towards it, and finally his fingers grasped around it.  
  
Propping himself up, he swung his arm around to point it at where his foggy mind placed Voldemort, only to find himself again faced with Nagini. So much for surprise. "Avada Kadavra," he whispered hoarsely, and a green neon flash slayed the snake. Voldemort whipped around, wand raised, and they simultaneously yelled, "AVADA KADAVRA!"  
  
Two great arcs of energy shot out from the two wands, clashing violently in a shower of radiance and sparks. But it didn't resolve itself. Harry felt power flow through him, not just his own but also a strange, comforting surcharge, and the power fed the intensity deadly light show.  
  
Then he began to notice something: the light show was edging closer to Voldemort. A rush of confidence woke his rage and loathing, adding to his power and forcing the meeting point of their energy further and further and further. . . almost there. . .  
  
PHWUT. . . BANG!  
  
Silence.  
  
Harry exhaled raggedly, then allowed himself to breathe heavily. It took him several moments to recover from the shock enough to take everything in. He was splattered with blood and guts, as was much of the room. Voldemort was. . . dead.  
  
Voldemort was dead!  
  
"Ha. . . Ha. . . Ha. Ha. Hahaha," he laughed hysterically. Then he froze. "Draco. . .?"  
  
XXXXX  
  
Yes, he's dead, but this is not the end of the story. Tune in again soon! 


	10. The Next Day and the Next Days

You FICKLE, fickle people! I threaten to withhold and I get love. I deliver the goods and then you turn your back and fall asleep. Well, luckily I am a long suffering woman, used to this abuse. But, if there are any women out there (and I know there are), I hereby appeal to our empathetic feminine side. Show me the love!  
  
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe belongs to JK Rowling.  
  
Chapter 10: The Next Day and the Next Days  
  
Draco also appeared to be covered in blood and guts, and was most certainly not moving. Harry struggled to unsteady feet and stumbled towards him, but paused upon hearing the heavy patter of footsteps. People were coming - running - and it sounded like a lot of people at that. He bent and groped frantically in the area in which his imagined his invisibility cloak could be located. A few seconds of fruitless groping almost drove him hysteria, but then his hand brushed against the familiar cloth and he grabbed it and dashed to Draco's curled form. He picked up the limp body and carried it about a meter until he could prop it against the wall, then he huddled next to Darco and hid them under the cloak. Voices could be clearly heard at this point, and moments latter, Harry watched seven men, several of them dressed in death eater robes (possibly having been alerted by their dark marks), burst in from the corridor.  
  
The scene was greeted with gasps of disbelief, one 'Bloody Hell', and one 'Merlin!'.  
  
"He's dead, isn't he?," asked one of robed men, sounding rather irritated, as the men began to spread out to take a better look at what was left of Voldemort.  
  
"The fool certainly had it coming. How many times did I tell him that he should never be alone?," asked a witch dressed in ordinary blue robes.  
  
"It has to have been Lucius," a third put in.  
  
"Nah. Lucius doesn't have the power to do this, not on his own. And who would he have brought with him besides one of us?," the witch in blue contradicted.  
  
"So, is it a coin toss between Dumbledore and Harry Potter then?"  
  
"He was so sure that neither was powerful enough to take him on, not now, not one on one. . . Maybe he blew himself up." This comment was met with a round of chuckles. Harry was, frankly, shocked. This indifferent behavior on the part of the death eaters was certainly not what he had been expecting, and he couldn't decide if this boded well or ill for the future.  
  
"Ugh. An ugly eyeball. Definitely him."  
  
"I wonder if this is all him, or did he managed to take someone down with him."  
  
"Well, I think I've had enough of this disgusting mess. I'm going to contact Malfoy," said a particularly hefty death eater, then him and two others left. The remaining death eaters continued to poke around for some time, but eventually grew bored and also left, leaving Harry to wait. And wait. He couldn't sneak out now - not with an unconscious Draco, a house full of death eaters, and his own weakened state. Draco's energy transfer had faded to practically nothing, leaving him exhausted after the day's events; then, for the second time that night, he fell asleep holding a beautiful blonde.  
  
*  
  
When he woke, Harry had absolutely no idea how much time had passed and Draco was still out cold, cradled under his arm. But, he did feel surprisingly well rested, suggesting that he had been asleep for quite some time - causing him to be all the more concerned for Draco. Why hadn't the other boy regained consciousness? How badly was he injured? In a panic, he checked for a pulse, only to scold himself for being an idiot, as it was obvious that Draco was still breathing. He gently slapped Draco's face, then he slapped harder, then he pinched him fiercely, but he didn't even get a twitch.  
  
"You stupid thing, I told you not to come after me," Harry whispered, half with affection and half with genuine irritation. He had been more than willing to die killing Voldemort - indeed, that was why he had made no plans for getting out of the dungeon after the battle.  
  
But what to do now? He couldn't just wait forever and Draco definitely needed medical attention. He didn't know how he would manage to drag Draco, unnoticed, through a house packed with death eaters, but the need to do something that wasn't waiting was overwhelming. So he whispered a weight nullifying spell, then he draped Draco's arm around his shoulder, grabbing on to his hand, and wrapped his free arm around Draco's waste; then he hauled them up, re-covered them with his invisibility cloak, and staggered out of the Voldemort's death room.  
  
The going was slow, but steady, and Harry neither saw nor heard anyone, to the point that it was rather disturbing. Eventually, he passed the area where he and Draco had apparated in however many hours earlier; but he had to stumble a good five more minutes before reaching a narrow stone staircase. He paused for a moment to listen, then began to make his way up, torn between not wanting to make noise and wanting to get the hell out of the staircase. Finally, he reached a heavy oak door that, to his surprise, he was easily able to swing open.  
  
He was greeted by stillness and silence. He was in what looked like an old, spacious, and expensively decorated Victorian interior. There was a Persian rug running the length of the corridor, several oil paintings (of the Muggle variety) decorating the wall, and a small chandelier hung from the ceiling. However, the lights were off, and the corridor was lit naturally by sunlight streaming in from rooms at either end of the hallway.  
  
Harry felt a rush of hope. Maybe the death eaters had left. . . Draco had told him that headquarters moved each week, so it would hardly have been a difficult matter to relocate from the mansion in which Voldemort had so obviously been found and killed. Harry picked the direction that emitted more light, then dragged Draco until he reached a lush, spacious room that opened into what looked like. . . an atrium.  
  
The relief tapped reserves of energy and he ran to the atrium, then to the door, despite dragging another person's dead weight, then he flung the door open.  
  
He felt like he was in some great movie: he breathed the fresh air in deeply, basking the glory of the mid afternoon sunlight of hope and freedom. The giant house was buffered from the other giant houses by a scenic verdant garden, and Harry finally let himself believe that everything was going to be okay.  
  
*  
  
Not ever wanting to return to the house, Harry had removed his cloak and carried Draco (in his arms, now that he didn't have to worry about being seen) to the neighboring house. There, he asked the butler if he could ring them a cab, being that his incapacitated friend had drunk far too much and now needed to be driven home - and the butler was more than willing to do anything to get the smelly, disgusting looking indigents off his porch and lawn.  
  
The cab came, reluctantly picked up the two filthy boys, and drove them quite a distance to central London as Harry requested. By the time the cab finally dropped them off, Sunday evening was encroaching. Harry then used his wand to cast a minor memory spell over the poor Indian driver, as he hadn't the money to pay the fare. Then he dragged Draco's body, drawing surprisingly little attention to himself (though, on the other hand, it was London, the great den of freaks), to a specific closed and decrepit store window. After jumping through the necessary hoops, he and Draco were allowed into the waiting room of St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.  
  
There were a lot of people waiting; indeed, since the return of Voldemort, there were a lot of people in the hospital generally. Voldemort's supporters were everywhere, acting everywhere, and his army was biding its time, making surgical strikes against strategic places and sources of resistance. It was only then, there in St. Mungo's, surrounded by many who appeared to be suffering from inflicted wounds, and holding his unconscious lover in his arms, that Harry truly realized what Draco had been trying to tell him.  
  
That realization was quickly followed by another: he had cut off the head of the dragon, but in its place would likely spring many more heads, and its body would remain intact, as well as very much alive, and very dangerous. Voldemort's death had freed the men and women he had cast under his Imperius, but at this point, most of 'his' support came willingly or else came from those under the Imperius of one of his willing supporters. The war was not over; in fact, the worst was, in all probability, just about to begin. It had simply been too late to stop a boulder this great from rolling down a mountain so steep.  
  
Then there was a third, immediately relevant revelation and Harry immediately felt his paranoia level rocket to the roof. He was not safe here. Voldemort surely had supporters here, Draco had even said so.  
  
Harry had to force himself not to start creeping towards the exit. Then he had to force himself not to just dump Draco and flee. Draco had stayed in the snake pit to save him, he now felt obliged to stay with Draco in the lion's den to save him. The name of Malfoy would certainly open doors and get the pale boy much needed medical attention, but Harry seriously doubted that Draco wanted his father alerted to his presence. Not now. It made Harry sick to his stomach to think about it and it steeled his resolve, for surely Lucius Malfoy would want his useful son (what had Draco called himself? the human battery?) back, now that Voldemort was finished with him. No! Harry would not let it happen.  
  
So, while in line, Harry discretely used his wand to vanish his scar (in truth, everyone seemed too wrapped up in their own misery to notice), figuring that the dirt, blood, sweat, guts, and general stench would do the rest of the job.  
  
He figured right. When he finally got Draco admitted, under the false name of Dragon Jones, and giving his own name as Brennan Wilder (the name of one of Dudley's friends), no one even batted an eyelash. The thin boy was taken to a bed in a ward on the unexpectedly populous fourth floor (for victims of spell damage), where a mediwitch insisted Harry wait outside while she looked over Mr. Jones. After several impatient and increasingly neurotic minutes of waiting, Harry made his way to the nearest bathroom. There he used the only cleaning spell he knew on his clothes and body - it did wonders for his appearance, though he continued to both smell bad and feel completely filthy. So he followed his magical attempt with what Seamus had once called 'a French whore bath': he wet several paper towels and used them to scrub his face and armpits and chest and groin. That, at least, made him feel cleaner, though he clothes still felt like they carried their own weight in grime.  
  
Then he returned to the closed door of the ward and waited. And waited. And waited. . . until he was stirred out of sleep by a soft, insistent hand. "Mr. Wilder? Mr. Wilder?"  
  
"Huh?," Harry grunted with a start.  
  
The mediwitch was back, looking sympathetic. "Are you all right yourself?"  
  
Harry nodded groggily. "I'm fine. How's Dra - gon?"  
  
The witch sighed unhappily. "Well, there are no medical reasons for him not to wake up, not physically at least. But with this kind of spell damage, the mind can be so traumatized that it doesn't even want to wake up and it simply can't handle consciousness. If we're lucky, this is just because of the pain, in which case the mind has a good chance of being able to work through it and eventually restore full consciousness. If we're unlucky, as is the case so often these days, then the prolonged exposure to the Cruciatus curse has broken the conscious part of the mind, and there won't be much to come back to."  
  
Harry paled at her words, his mind flashing to memories of Neville's mother, here on the same floor. "Can I see him?," he asked hoarsely.  
  
With a nod, the kindly witch escorted him to and deposited him in a white room, closing the door behind him with the parting instructions, "Don't stay too long. Visiting hours are long over." Harry looked hesitantly at the still body, then crept closer. Draco had been cleaned up and Harry was struck by an awful emotional pain, seeing him so exquisite and so vulnerable. Then a terrible thought struck.  
  
With a broken mind, with no will, Draco would finally be the perfect tool. He wouldn't be able to plot against his captors, he wouldn't be able to fight them off, he wouldn't even know what was happening to him. At least if Harry used him, he would treat him well. . . With that final thought, Harry felt suddenly nauseous and was profoundly horrified by his own mind. He wanted Draco, he couldn't deny it, but his feelings were all muddled and he couldn't make any sense of them.  
  
He reached out to stroke the baby smooth cheek of the peaceful face. "Come back to me, Draco, please." But he didn't know if he wanted this for its own sake or simply to be spared the wrenching temptation of taking advantage of a senseless beauty. Then even he couldn't be so heartless, and he gathered Draco in his arms, kissing his cheek. Either way, he really did want Draco to be okay. After a long moment, he gently placed the limp body down and retreated to a chair in the corner, determined to stay until there was a sign of life, until he willed life back into the sleeping form. Then he snuggled under his invisibility cloak and returned to sleep - everything was so much easier and so much more comforting there.  
  
He was woken several hours later by the sound of a door closing. He opened his eyes to see. . . Dumbledore, staring at him under his cloak. He pulled the cloak off, stretching his legs, and rearranging his limbs, but didn't stand, preferring to glare angrily. "I killed him."  
  
Dumbledore nodded stoically, though a small, sad smile appeared on his face. "I know."  
  
"Do you now?," Harry asked dangerously. "And did you know what this would do to Draco? You knew what he was, you knew that Voldemort was using him, you knew everything. Did you know he would end up a fucking zombie?!"  
  
Dumbledore considered the boy in front of him for a long moment. Finally, he spoke softly, gravely. "Malfoy knew what he was doing. Every war needs someone to do the dirty work, and Malfoy knew that. Like you, he has always been a person with a destiny, and the opportunities for him to get off this path have been virtually nonexistent. He will never be the same, but I doubt the fates are finished with him yet."  
  
Every time Dumbledore used the name Malfoy instead of Draco, Harry was enraged a little more. "Aren't we finished yet?," he growled.  
  
The old man responded sternly, "I think you know the answer to that, Harry. The Dark Lord may be dead, but the war has just begun in earnest."  
  
All of Harry's fears and predictions were being confirmed. He wanted to scream at his headmaster, and tell him to go fuck off, that he WAS finished, that he had already fulfilled his destiny and now it was time to lay back and let someone else clean up the rest of the mess. Unfortunately, the rest of the mess was a large marauding army of Voldemort supporters and undead, led by a vicious and malevolent group of death eaters. So after allowing dozens of seconds to cool his rage, he gritted out, "What do you want me to do?"  
  
Somehow, Dumbledore looked both pleased and defeated by Harry's compliance. "Actually, it's not a job I think you'll mind. I just want you to look over young Malfoy here. His father will be looking for him, and will undoubtedly go to great lengths to get him back. Their blood relation means that Lucius could use his son more effectively than Voldemort was ever able to, provided he gets his hands on certain ancient texts containing spells that complement the Power Transfer Spell. I believe you would be uniquely suited to this task." Harry looked very much like he wanted to interrupt, but the Headmaster pushed on. "You want to know why we didn't try to protect young Malfoy before. The truth is that we couldn't even do this now if it wasn't for the fact that the Ministry's power is falling apart, and it can no longer prevent us from keeping an underage child from his legal guardian. But now. . . civil war makes anything possible. After Christmas, Hogwarts will not be reopening."  
  
Harry was left reeling. "Civil war?"  
  
Dumbledore nodded. "Word is already spreading of Voldemort's death, giving our side the courage to actively come out against the other side; and this is good, because a stand needs to be made. But the other side is a huge and brutal army pervading our society, now released from the restraint placed on it by Voldemort's monopoly of power. And this army has a whole arsenal of weaponry that we will never be able to stoop so low as to use."  
  
"I don't know. I think we've stooped pretty low already," Harry snapped scathingly.  
  
"We have, we have."  
  
*  
  
Harry rarely left Draco's side for the next week. He ate in the cafeteria and spent most of the non-visiting hours hidden under his invisibility cloak. Still, he was under the distinct impression that the kindly mediwitch caring for Dragon Jones was aware of his presence - especially given the fact that Harry had taken to cuddling up to Draco's lifeless form to sleep. However, she also seemed disinclined to inform of him: Harry suspect that Dumbledore had talked to her. She had even left him a clean set of clothes.  
  
Harry spent some time exploring the area of muggle London that surrounded St. Mungo's, but for the most part, he just sat or exercised in Draco's room, with far too much time to think, avoiding the swamped and increasingly chaotic hospital hallways like the plague. It was all making him bitter and resentful and it fostered a most fowl mood, though luckily it was usually not directed at the blonde on the bed.  
  
On Saturday, after almost a week on Draco watch, and the day after Hogwarts had been let out, possibly forever, Hermione came to visit. Outside of Dumbledore and anyone else he had told, only Hermione and Ron knew where he was and what he was doing, though Harry had left the details to the imagination.  
  
Hermione came up to him in the cafeteria, where Harry was eating quickly and doing his best to be inconspicuous, being justifiably paranoid about the possibility of being recognized. She slid into the seat next to him, and his eyes flickered to her face before registering surprise. "Hermione. . . what are you doing here?"  
  
She raised her eyebrows expressively. "I have been waiting up here for you for hours. I was about to knock on every door to look for you." Then she broke into a great grin and grabbed his hands excitedly. "I'm so glad your okay. I can't believe you did it!"  
  
Harry looked around nervously. "Maybe we should talk about this somewhere else."  
  
Hermione nodded and stood, then followed Harry down a floor. Outside a particular door, Harry stopped and whispered, "Herm. . . can you guess who it is I'm supposed to be looking after?"  
  
Slowly, she shook her head. Her brain put forth a number of suggestions, but all were merely possibilities, not anyone obvious based on her limited knowledge of the situation.  
  
"It's HIM," Harry sighed with pain.  
  
"You-know-who?!," Hermione gasped, panic suddenly flaring.  
  
"No! . . . D - the Giver," he hissed awkwardly.  
  
"Harry," her voice was so low it could barely be heard, but it had gained a sharp edge. "What did you do? You said you weren't going to hurt him."  
  
Her words struck raw chords in himself, provoking anger and guilt. "It wasn't me! You-know-who put him under the Cruciatus, and then he never woke up. He wasn't even supposed to be there! I told him to go back to Hogwarts."  
  
Hermione did not look happy with him, but she finally nodded; then she looked at the door they standing in front of. "Is this his room?"  
  
Harry nodded. "Hermione. . . you have to swear not to tell anyone, especially not Ron. You deserve to know the truth, but he will never forgive me for this. Please don't make it worse for him by telling others, he doesn't deserve that."  
  
"I swear," she replied solemnly, then she followed him through the door.  
  
She froze in shock and a hiss of breath escaped between clenched teeth. Harry closed the door after her. "No. It can't be. How. . .? I can't believe. . ."  
  
"It's true," Harry said expressionlessly.  
  
Hermione continued to gape and stutter in disbelief for a minute or two more, before her and Harry were really able to talk. She told him of the chaos at Hogwarts and Hogsmeade (reminiscent of what the Daily Prophet was saying was happening throughout the wizarding community - attacks, pillaging, rioting, fighting in the street, guerrilla warfare, mayhem), and he told her the details of his encounter with Voldemort, as well as his need, and duty, to defend Draco from his father. Harry respected and trusted Hermione above all others - Ron was trustworthy, but he couldn't shoulder the same responsibility that Hermione could; he couldn't be relied on in the same way. Hermione was. . . his right hand man, and was a brilliant and powerful witch in her own right.  
  
It was a comforting afternoon they spent together, merely by virtue of each other's presence, and both felt renewed hope by the time Hermione left to go stay with Ron at the twins' place. After a few days she would return to the home of her muggle parents, where she would attempt to coordinate lodging and care for the growing numbers of injured and orphaned - from both sides of the war.  
  
*  
  
It was another three, almost unbearable days before Draco stirred.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Please review! This is a capitalist society - a little give and a little take. Please! Hope you enjoy, either way. 


	11. The Difference between Dawn and Sunrise

Thank you for all your reviews! They really do make me happy! But don't think that means that you never have to review again - you better if you want this to be an ongoing relationship. =-)  
  
Ass covering clause: I own nothing, only my brain.  
  
Chapter11: The Difference between Dawn and Sunrise  
  
"Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow?  
And did you know your stairway lies on the whispering wind?"  
  
- Led Zepplin, Stairway to Heaven  
  
Harry blinked fuzzily, briefly registering the darkness of night before settling back into sleep. Then his mind suddenly came into sharp focus, again registering whatever it was that had woken him up the first time: movement in the body next to him - in the body he was wrapped around, holding. He shot up in bed, hovering closely over the blonde, shaking him gently. "Draco. . . Draco!"  
  
Draco suddenly moved again, twisting away from him and whimpering. Harry reached out for the thin shoulder, only to have bony fingers grip his arm in a vice grip. Then Draco was struggling, blindly and incoherently, against Harry, who promptly let go of him, seeing that it was just driving the Slytherin further into panic and hysteria. He backed away to sit at the foot of the bed until Draco calmed, drenched in sweat and cowering at the head at the head of the bed.  
  
"Draco?," Harry tried again. The other boy was shivering, arms wrapped around his knees, and determinedly looked away from Harry. He hesitantly reached toward Draco again, until his hand rested on a calf. "Draco, look at me."  
  
It took several minutes of comfortably rubbing his calf before Draco tentatively looked up through frightened eyes. Eye contact burned though both of them, forcing both of them to look away. Gradually, Harry inched towards Draco, then used his hand to steered cobalt eyes to his own; then he strained to deliver a frail smile.  
  
((Worthless, worthless, worthless. You should have died in my place. You are the greater threat.))  
  
Draco's face wavered, then he buried his face in his knees again, and a sob made its way to Harry's ears. Harry wrapped his arms around him, awkwardly, his arms encircling the thin body and its knees and calves. Finally, Draco looked up through teary, puffy eyes. "Is he gone?"  
  
((I'll never be gone, not for you. I'll be with you forever. I am part of you. You are MINE!))  
  
Harry nodded.  
  
For a moment, a smile flashed across his face. Then he begin to laugh loudly and hysterically, and Harry had to grab on to him to prevent him from falling of the bed. "Draco, sweetie, baby, are you alright?"  
  
Draco blinked at him strangely, owl like and unfocused. Then he frowned. . . then he looked startled and frightened, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you here? What's wrong? Where am I?"  
  
Harry was hit with a wave of guilt and melancholy, and he hung his head. "You've been unconscious for. . . uh, ten days, I think. Everything has descended into chaos, or so Dumbledore tells me, but the number of wounded would support his claim. You are in St. Mungo's. And, uh, why am I here? I don't suppose you would believe me if I said because I want to be?" Harry tried to offer a smile, but the whole situation was simply too complex and too fucked up for his words and smile to be at all interpreted as genuine. Seeing Draco's sceptical and hostile expression, he resorted to a more believable answer. "I'm getting regular owls from Dumbledore, Hermione, and Ron. Civil war has broken out, with your father as one of its heads, and he's looking for you. Most people seemed to agree that him finding you would be a bad thing."  
  
((You should kill yourself, you disgusting slut. The world would be better off.))  
  
Draco's expression emerged into an unsettling blend of horror, disappointment, fear, and pain. "So what you're saying is that I'm back to the point where it would be better for everyone would be better off if I killed myself."  
  
"No! . . . Uh, Draco, it's not like that." Harry took his hand again. "We're integrating you into our side."  
  
Draco rubbed his eyes, then mumbled, "I thought you were on my side."  
  
((No one's on your side. You're the enemy, you backstabbing whore.))  
  
Harry flushed and was overcome by another wave of guilt. "I am. . . It's just that, it's bigger that you and me now. Fighting has broken out everywhere."  
  
Draco spent nearly a minute rubbing his temples and forehead before looking up and saying very clearly, "No. Voldemort's dead, and I'm going to take advantage of that. None of this shit." With that he swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand. His knees almost gave out and Harry had to reach out a helping hand, but he managed to stand and shot a defiant look at the rave haired boy. "I'm finished with being used. By either side. So take your protection and fuck off."  
  
Draco tried for the door, but Harry stopped him by saying, "Draco. You can't leave. First of all, you don't have your wand. Second of all, you are dressed in a hospital gown. And, third of all, it's the middle of the night. Where would you go? How would you get there?" Harry slid off the bed and came to stand in front of the taller boy. In truth, he was growing rather disturbed. Draco's physical mannerisms were off - twitchy and skittish in a way they had never been before, his hands flittering around and his eyes refusing to make contact. And now he seemed to be muttering to himself, almost as if he had forgotten that there was someone standing a twenty centimetres in front of him.  
  
((Yes, what are you going to do? Cry? DIE? You have no one, you pathetic scum, and you are too weak to do this on your own.))  
"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up," Draco whispered.  
  
"Draco?"  
  
Draco froze, then frowned, finally looking up. "I am leaving. You can either help me and give me my wand or you can be a little shit and just let me go like this. But I swear on everything holy that if you restrain me or keep me here in anyway, I WILL kill myself and then I'll be no use to any one. And believe me when I say that you cannot stop me from killing myself." His voice sounded cold and threatening, and his hands were clenched in trembling fists.  
  
Harry was quickly coming to the conclusion that Draco was less than stable; but, on the other hand, he rather wanted to get out of St. Mungo's himself. The boredom, mixed with the paranoia of discovery, was driving him to instability too. He had always intended to relocate as soon as Draco was fit to travel, though this very moment seemed rather premature. He also doubted the wisdom of giving Draco his wand back, but he hadn't the heart or will not to. He was on Dumbledore's side, but he was on Draco's too.  
  
So he reached into his sleeve, where both his and Draco's wands were strapped to his arm; he retrieved Draco's and handed it to him, followed by a tense moment when both Draco and Harry thought that the former would hex the latter.  
  
((KILL HIM! He's just using you! How can you think otherwise?! You're only good for one thing. . . ))  
  
Instead, Draco turned the wand to himself and transformed the turquoise hospital gown into a baggy grey sweat shirt that exposed certain private parts of his anatomy. Harry blushed and looked away, but Draco showed no notice at all, turning to the bed and transfiguring the sheet there into a pair of black jeans, where Harry found himself completely unable to tear his eyes from a firm, perfect ass. . . from a perfect ass that was now bending over to struggle into a pair of pants. Harry felt his own pants grow uncomfortably tight.  
  
Damn. He had forgotten how much Draco could turn him on - it was easy when he just lay there like the dead, but seeing the animated version was definitely something else entirely, and he couldn't help but suddenly be bombarded by tantalizing memories of amazing, mind blowing sex. He attempted to suppress his sudden desire and forced himself to look indifferent as Draco turned around, looking around the room for. . . his shoes. The rest of his clothes had been thrown out, being that they were covered in blood, guts, semen, and sweat, but his shoes had been kept, so he grabbed them and yanked them onto bare feet. Only then did he turn back to Harry. "How, uh, muggle of you," Harry commented, desperately trying to direct his mind away from fantastic sex.  
  
"Well, surely you didn't think I would stay in the wizarding world, not with my father looking for me. . . Anyway, I guess this is goodbye. Lets not make a thing of it."  
  
"It most certainly is not!," Harry cried indignantly. Draco was blowing HIM off?! "I'm coming with you."  
  
Draco arched an elegant eyebrow, certainly not expecting Harry to want to come with him, even if to ensure he didn't fall into his father's evil clutches. The question was, did he want Harry to come with him? So much screamed no - every ounce of self defence, in fact, his entire ego; he KNEW that Harry would hurt him, Harry had too much of a hold on him. On his emotions. But his id relished the idea of taking Harry with him, though he couldn't tell if the little bitch wanted this so that he could fuck Harry or so that he could fuck with Harry. Or maybe the temptation of companionship was just too much, especially now that he had already felt it and experienced it. His relationship with Harry had made him weaker somehow, less independent. "Fine. Are you ready to go then?"  
  
((WHORE! You like the pain! You want his cock up your ass, ripping you, making you bleed like the little bitch you are!))  
  
Harry quickly moved towards the chair and picked up his invisibility cloak, then returned to Draco with a quick smile, "Ready as I'll ever be." Draco flashed a dashing smile, to hide the fact that he wanted to wretch, then reached for Harry's hand, and - CRACK! - they apparated away.  
  
Harry blinked and found himself in a dark ally - and Draco was already walking away from him at a brisk pace. Harry followed him silently; and followed him, and followed him, through the dead streets of the inner city. After nearly a half hour of walking, and several spurned attempts at conversation (Draco appearing perfectly content mumbling to himself), Harry had reached the limit of his tolerance. It was the middle of the night, he had no idea where he was, and he was extremely sleepy. Finally, he grabbed Draco's elbow, which was, of course, promptly ripped away. "Draco! Where the hell are we going?!"  
  
((He hates you. I hate you. Your father hates you. Everyone hates you. But that'll never stop them from using you.))  
  
Draco sighed: he was having a distinctly difficult time thinking clearly, his thoughts muddled and constantly interrupted. "Are you tired?"  
  
"Yes! It's the middle of the night, and I'm exhausted. Not all of us have been asleep for the last ten days. Plus, it's December and I'm freezing. I can't see how you can't be cold too."  
  
"Fine," Draco replied expressionlessly. He turned up the next alley, walking up to a large garbage bin, from which he pulled a heavy pile of newspapers. Harry watched in growing disbelief as Draco spread them out along the ground.  
  
"Malfoy! This is ridiculous. We're not going to sleep out in the open, on the street! Who knows what kind of evil lurks around here at night."  
  
((YOU are the evil that lurks around here at night.))  
  
Draco eyed the newspaper, then transfigured it into a sleeping bag and a thick blanket. Without looking at Harry, he said, "Whatever it is, it can't be as bad what lurks under vaulted ceilings and great chandeliers." Then he climbed underneath the bed and coiled into a foetal position, back away from Harry. It was very strange, but he felt in his gut that the street was the safest place for him, that it was the only place that his father wouldn't be able to find him. His entire upbringing rebelled against this, but his upbringing had nothing on this survival instinct. ((Feel at home with the trash, do we?))  
  
Harry really wanted to argue more, to force Draco to come with him, but he neither had the will nor the belief in his ability to dissuade/force Draco from his choice. He was feeling oddly indulgent, and, like Draco, he objected to sleeping on the street more on principle than on the belief that it would be safer elsewhere. It was highly unlikely that they wouldn't be able to deal with any problems they encountered here in muggle London, as much of the chaos kept within the wizarding world (with what did spill over being attributed to a rise in football hooliganism and, of course, terrorism). So he gave in and lowered himself onto the sleeping bag next to Draco, lying staring up at the surprisingly well lit sky (yeah for light pollution!).  
  
"You are the most demanding, stubborn person I have ever met." But Draco ignored him in favor of the serpentine voice and its constant stream of poison.  
  
Finally too cold to justify his stubborn determination not to give in to the impulse (so indulged during the last ten days) to curl up next to Draco, he did so, wrapping his arm around the shivering figure next to him. "Good night, Draco," he whispered. "I'm so glad you're back."  
  
Bittersweet pain stabbed at Draco's fragile heart, but he let nothing give it away.  
  
*  
  
Harry woke to thrashing and a savage bite on his arm. "Shit!," he cried, instinctively pushing Draco away from him before taking in his ragged breathing, anguished expression, and tightly shut eyelids. "Draco!"  
  
Draco shot up, then stumbled several feet before falling back to his feet and retching - if there had been anything in his stomach, he surely would have thrown up. Harry quickly came to crouch next to him, careful not to touch the shaking body. Finally, Draco sat back on his haunches, head bowed and hands covering his face.  
  
((Hahahaha! Did you enjoy that? Violent and agonizing, like you like it. Like you deserve it.))  
  
"Draco?," Harry asked gently, before reaching out to stroke his back. Meeting no resistance, he pulled the yielding body back to their makeshift bed, wrapping his arm around his companion and nestling silky blond hair. "Shhh. . .," he soothed, until the trembling stilled.  
  
"Draco," he finally ventured. "Are you okay? Tell me what's wrong."  
  
Draco was so still and quiet that Harry thought for a moment he had fallen asleep; but then the Slytherin turned around buried his face in Harry's shoulder. "Harry," came his muffled voice. "I'm. . . hearing voices. A voice. Voldemort is . . . talking to me."  
  
((He's going to hate you now - hate you so much that the pity won't even keep him around. That is, if he even believes you.))  
  
Harry's body tensed, but Draco's fingers gripped his shirt, both begging and demanding he not pull away. Harry forced himself to relax, then began tenderly rubbing his back. "What do you mean?"  
  
"He's in my mind," Harry strained to make out, the voice was wavering so badly. The defeated tone, as always, appealed to the part of Harry that was still sensitive and compassionate, that hadn't been hardened by years of trial. He held Draco tightly, not knowing what to think. Had the destruction of Voldemort's body exiled him to Draco's? Or was this a craziness thing?  
  
"What does he say?," Harry asked apprehensively.  
  
((Filthy, worthless whore of your father. Even Potter called you a slut, you useless, pathetic, disgusting trash.))  
  
Draco gripped his shirt even tighter and tried to fight back tears. "Horrible things."  
  
Harry pulled Draco up and away, forcing a face to face, though blue eyes looked away determinedly. Then Harry brought their faces so close, noses brushing, that even that was impossible. "Don't listen to him, Draco. Whatever he's saying, there's no way it can be worth listening to, right? Draco, you know that."  
  
((But you what you are, don't you? You know I'm right.))  
  
Draco blinked away tears, and Harry was so overcome with sympathy and adoration. He closed the millimetres between them and delicately kissed, taking a brief moment to suckle a soft lower lip. He pulled back slightly to take in the peaceful, pale, close eyed face. "I really am on your side," he pledged again, bringing up his hand to caress a smooth cheek.  
  
Draco jerked forwards and reinitiated an awkward kiss, laced with desperation and dedication. He wanted so much to believe. When he pulled away, Harry smiled at him affectionately. "There's a couple more hours until the sun rises. Let's try to get a little bit more sleep. We'll figure this out tomorrow."  
  
Draco nodded and burrowed into Harry's shoulder, then sleep drifted over them both.  
  
((You'll never escape me. Because I am the truth.))  
  
*  
  
The noise of the street and the cloud clad sun woke Harry a couple of hours later. He felt a little grimy and positively starving and . . . rather horny - a state probably provoked and certainly aggravated by the lithe form in his arms. Merlin, how he wanted to rub up against him.  
  
"Unh. . .," he moaned unintentionally, as a shift in Draco's position brought the desired friction, immediately startling the blonde awake - but Harry's hold prevented his attempt to jerk away. "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying anything. It just happened."  
  
((Hahahahaha! I told you this would happen!))  
  
Then Harry loosened his hold, but Draco hesitantly decided not to pull away. He smiled shyly, then snuggled closer. Harry gasped, feeling a cool, slender - SO SEXY - hand slip into his trousers and wrap around his arousal. Harry was rock hard immediately, again thrown by just how much Draco could turn him on. He reached for Draco's waste, intent on returning the favor, but Draco deftly dodged the move, the aristocratic hand ceaselessly massaging and stroking him, all the more erotic for its obvious hesitance and inexperience. A minute or two brought him to climax, and he pulled Draco into a passionate kiss as he came in his pants.  
  
((Whore. Trying to buy his affections with all you have to offer. But even that's not enough. He wants to drain you. Only then will he stay.))  
  
Basking in the afterglow, Harry barely registered Draco turn away from him, but after several moments, he did register the low muttering, and the gentle rocking; disturbed and concerned (and a little hurt) he strained to listen, but was only able to catch pieces of what was being said. "Shut up. . . not true. . . it doesn't matter. . . I can take it. I can take it. I can take it."  
  
Harry touched his shoulder. "What can you take, Draco?"  
  
Draco wrenched away from his touch, scrambling to his feet, and glaring down at Harry. "I can take anything you do to me, Potter," he hissed.  
  
((No, you can't. You're weak, remember?))  
  
Harry got to his own feet, feeling upset and confused. "I told you, you stupid git, I'm on your side. I'm not going to hurt you."  
  
"So you're calling me names now too, are you? Well, I'm not surprised, because I KNEW. I know. You are more of a threat to me than my father," Draco responded, voice dripping with malice and hysteria.  
  
"How can you say that?! Damn it, Draco, why are you always fucking like this? Hot one moment, then freezing the next. Why can't you just be nice for ten minutes straight?," Harry demanded exasperatedly, both boys completely oblivious to shoppers and passers by curiously glancing into their alley.  
  
((What's wrong with you, Draco? Tell me.))  
  
"YOU ARE THE STUPID GIT!," Draco roared. "Why the HELL do you THINK is wrong with me? Or are you COMPLETELY incapable of thought?"  
  
"YOU COULD STILL BE NICE!," Harry yelled back, feeling a bizarre flush of both guilt and righteousness; and amazement at the number familiarity was doing on their relationship. Maybe it was better when they didn't know each other's worst secrets, when all there interactions were charades and pretences, performed by meticulous actors. Harry was beginning to realize the truth: that Draco was a far better actor than he was a real person - he knew exactly who he pretended to be, who he was supposed to be, and who he had to be, but he hadn't a clue who he actually was. How could he be, as poorly socialized as he was? And, when the mask came off, it showed glaringly.  
  
Harry watched Draco's features gradually transform from rage to frustrated resignation. "Nice? You mean you want me to be fake?"  
  
((Of course he does, the real you is nothing. Nothing worth loving anyway.))  
  
"No! I, uh, I meant. . . not like that. . . I meant simple," Harry stuttered, beginning to see where Draco was coming from. Why couldn't things just be simple for once? That was what he wanted.  
  
"It doesn't matter what you meant. I guess I'm out of luck if simplicity is really what you want. But what if I'm nice, will you love me then? Nice I can do." Draco looked and sounded rather hurt and angry that Harry had 'forced' him to this. It was too much like begging.  
  
"What?," Harry was reeling with the speed and apparent randomness of the conversation and he was honestly at a loss for words.  
  
"I'm asking, what will it take to make you love me?," his voice almost shaking, he looked very much on the verge of exploding, though it was impossible to tell if was from rage, or desperation, or maybe insanity. And, sickeningly enough, he really did want to know the way to Harry's heart: he loved him enough to die for him, and just maybe he loved him enough to change for him.  
  
((You can never change enough. A leopard doesn't change its spots, like a whore doesn't change his knickers. But, then again, you don't even wear knickers, do you? You're that easy.))  
  
XXXXX  
  
Please review! 


	12. Questions and Answers

Readers: As always, many thanks to my reviewers. Keep it up, you have my undying gratitude. To those of you who don't review, do so now. This in one bitch of a chapter and I deserve it! Thanks and lots of love!  
  
Disclaimer: As always, I still own nothing. Though at least now my plot just may be getting original enough to be called my own.  
  
Chapter 12: Questions and Answers  
  
"My house was built for loving, not a theatre of war. . .  
he's my man and I've been doing him wrong."  
  
- Beth Orton, God Song  
  
Harry's mind spun so fast that his consciousness could barely register the thoughts. Love? He knew that he wanted Draco - no one had ever excited him the way the blond Giver did. But no one riled him like Draco either; and he was convinced that this was because of Draco's. . . 'difficult' personality. Yet Harry felt strangely inclined to indulge him, but was this because of pity? Did he feel pity? He didn't think so. . . when he thought of Draco's pain, he swelled with anger and grief and he himself suffered. He didn't think he felt pity for him, he wanted to protect him and ease his misery. And the idea of changing Draco was absolutely abhorrent, as was the idea of forcing him back into whatever roles he always played. He wanted to. . . to be there to see Draco open up and discover his real self, to be the first to see what precious and fragile beauty lay underneath. He wanted to see Draco as he had nights ago, open and vulnerable, and racked with pleasure. Just the thought filled him with such emotion that it had to be love, didn't it?  
  
((He can never love you. You are beneath him and shouldn't even be trying to hold him back. Even if he does say he loves you, it will only be to appease you so that he can use you. Watch him debate if its worth it.))  
  
Draco frowned at him for a long time, watching Harry go through the inner debate, but finally the damage to his pride (all he had) grew too great; and he spun around and briskly strode out of the alley. "Harry wouldn't lie to me about something like that," Draco muttered to the voice.  
  
"Wait, Draco!," Harry called, trotting after him onto the bustling street, where he made the same mistake he always did of grabbing Draco's arm. Draco, of course, ripped his arm away and continued on without even turning to him. "Leave it, Harry, I'm famished."  
  
"Wait!," he tried again irritably. "You were right!"  
  
That made Draco slowed in his tracks, though several jostles from fellow pedestrians got him walking again, though at a more reasonable pace. Harry took this as encouragement and continued, "You're right, I mean. Asking you to be nice was asking you to pretend. I'm sorry, that's not what I want and it's not fair to you. I really do want you to be yourself and I want to be there to see who that turns out to be. Because I don't think my life will be quite as worth living if you're not in it. I wouldn't even be alive if it wasn't for you, and Voldemort would be. It was your wand that I used to kill him. Give me time, I am definitely falling in love with you. But, for the moment, all I can do is swear that I'll protect you from your father, and everyone else; and that we'll find a way to deal with the voice. I am on your side, and yours above all others." He was not eloquent, but his words were heartfelt.  
  
((Hahahaha. You can't seriously believe that load of swill!))  
  
Draco felt himself quiver violently inside, but he didn't break his stride, and Harry gazed searchingly at an expressionless face (was that a fleeting grimace?), trying to avoid the oncoming walkers. Had he gotten through that thick skull? His concern was answered when he felt a soft, slender hand take his and grip it with surprising force. Harry turned his head back to face forward, sporting a silly and rather unexpected grin, though he felt like a bit of a retard (luckily, his self confidence was enough to deal with this). After several moments of giddiness, he thought to ask, "So, where are we going?"  
  
"I thought we could find a supermarket and use your invisibility cloak to steal food," Draco replied smoothly, almost making Harry stop in his tracks.  
  
"We can't do that! That's stealing!," he cried with righteous indignation.  
  
"I know it is, that's why I called it that, but we need the food more than them. And you have no right to be outraged, I am well aware of the laxity of your moral code."  
  
((Of course you are. After all, my little child slut, you corrupted him.))  
  
Harry had no response to that, having been reminded of the fact he had done far worse in the name of necessity, but he definitely registered a grimace and a faint wince this time - he was beginning to become attuned the little reactions provoked by the voice.  
  
"What did he say?," he asked darkly.  
  
After a moment's hesitation, Draco replied with apparent indifference, "He says that I corrupted you. And then he called me names."  
  
Again, Harry was almost stopped in his tracks. How he wished that they weren't having this conversation on the move! "You know that's absolute shite, don't you? The supposed laxity of my moral code dates back to fifth year, a year in which we barely had any contact. You have been the victim of it, not its cause. And besides, I hardly think myself corrupted!," he ended in a huff, as Draco spotted a Sainsbury's and dragged Harry across the street by his hand.  
  
When Draco didn't reply, being too intent on getting food, Harry continued, "Is this the kind of shit he always says?"  
  
It took a moment for Draco to tear his thoughts away from the food displayed in the shop they had just entered, but he finally answered absently, "Yes, worse sometimes. He's a real fucking asshole."  
  
((No, sweetie. You're the asshole, I'm just the one doing the fucking. Even if I never am able to again, I'll do it forever in your dreams.))  
  
"That's got to be the understatement of the century," Harry commented dryly. He smiled at Draco with wry amusement, which turned into genuine amusement at seeing Draco gazing hypnotically at a box of cereal. "Fancy the chocolate puffs much?"  
  
Actually, Draco was rather horrified to see that the brown and orange swirling and bubbling and. . . twisting into a face, a face that leered suggestively and looked suspiciously like his father. He tried not to react, but he couldn't stop the blood from draining from his face, yielding a distinctly pasty color that Harry couldn't help but notice. "Draco, what is it?"  
  
Draco forced his eyes from the cereal box, then forced a weak smile. He grabbed the nearest box that wasn't chocolate puffs and said, "Nothing. Uh, lets get this."  
  
((Hahaha. Hallucinating now, are we? What will Harry think when he finds out that you're batty, on top of everything else?))  
  
"Granola?," Harry asked sceptically, a little concerned.  
  
"Get something else if you want. Lets just get out of here," he muttered, walking away. Harry grabbed a box of Apple Jacks and hid it, with the granola, under his invisibility cloak, then followed Draco out of the store. They found a park a couple of blocks away and sat on the grass to ravenously stuff handfuls of cereal into their mouths.  
  
"So, any idea where we should go?," Harry asked with a mouthful of food.  
  
"I don't suppose we can stay on the street? . . . I feel safe here. There's lots of people here, it'll be hard for my father to find me and almost impossible for anyone else," he replied longingly.  
  
Harry frowned as he chewed. "I don't think so. First of all, we're gonna need showers eventually. Secondly, we can't stay here forever anyway. And finally, we need to get you help. If you really do have Voldemort rattling around your brain, then this is a serious matter. Surely you must realize that."  
  
"Maybe it'll just go away." I am NOT crazy.  
  
"What? Are you crazy?," Harry asked disbelievingly.  
  
"I must be to but up with you, Potter," Draco answered angrily.  
  
"Ugh. Not back to this again." Then he had a thought. "Listen. . . what about your mother? Can she help maybe? Surely not everyone in your family is a psychopath."  
  
((Yes, Malfoy, tell him about your mother. You're becoming just like her, you know?))  
  
"No, she can't," the blonde said bitterly. "She's a non entity."  
  
Confused, Harry pushed, "What do you mean?"  
  
Draco sighed. "She's autistic, she can't relate to the world beyond pleasantries and absolutely useless manifestations of absurdly powerful magic. Lucius only married her because her mother was a Giver and she has some latent powers that suggested she could be used to produce a child like me."  
  
((Instability runs in families, but you probably don't need me to tell you that. There are certainly enough examples in your family to make it obvious. Join the club.))  
  
Harry looked rather appalled, and Draco looked away into the distance. "I'm sorry," Harry mumbled.  
  
"Don't be. . . So, who else? Now that we've established that everyone in my family is, in fact, mentally ill." Including me, his mind added. But he needn't have omitted it, for Harry was more than capable of hearing the unspoken words. He himself was concerned for Draco's state of mind - in general, really, but especially since being tortured by Voldemort.  
  
The obvious solution would have been the Weasleys, had they not been dead - Harry grimaced at the memory. Draco probably would have refused that solution anyway; but the only other person Harry could come up with was Dumbledore, and he knew Draco wouldn't be amenable to that suggestion. Even Harry had his doubts about the Headmaster's trustworthiness. Whatever greater cause he was working for, he was certainly not on Draco's, or even Harry's, side.  
  
"I would suggest Hermione or Ron, but I don't think they could help. And your father would find you at St. Mungo's."  
  
"My father will eventually find me no matter where I am. I would suggest Pansy, and she probably could help hide me, but I doubt she could do anything about my. . . uh, other problem. If she's even alive," Draco concluded wistfully.  
  
"Why wouldn't she be?," Harry asked apprehensively. He didn't know if he could stand any more disillusionment in the world; he could barely understand how Draco could continue to live such a bleak existence.  
  
"We made a pact that if we were ever forced to join the dark side, we'd kill ourselves. Of course, being the bastard that I am, I made the pact knowing that I was already helping their side," Draco said derogatively.  
  
((See? You betray everyone, you untrustworthy whore. If you loved Harry, you would leave him - for it's only a matter of time before you betray him.))  
  
A flinch provoked Harry's question, "What is he saying now?"  
  
With a resigned sigh and downcast eyes, the voice slowly wearing him down, Draco replied, "He's saying I should leave you before I betray you like I have betrayed everyone else."  
  
Harry dropped the box of cereal and grabbed the limp hands, "Don't you dare! He's just trying to get you killed!"  
  
Draco looked morosely into Harry's pleading eyes. "I don't know, Harry. What he says echoes my own thoughts so closely sometimes . . . I don't know what to believe."  
  
Feeling somewhat desperate, Harry finally voiced his true thoughts. "We have to go to Dumbledore. No! Hear me out. . . The mediwitches and wizards at St. Mungo's haven't had much luck with this sort of thing, be it Voldemort's spirit or just an after effect of the Cruciatus. Whatever his loyalties and however sneaky his behaviour, he has never actually lied to me. I can't promise that it won't end undesirably, but at least Lucius won't dare to get you when we are with him. Besides, we can't just wait on the street until your father and his cronies do find us. We might be strong enough to fight him alone, but even we are not strong enough to take on a whole army."  
  
Draco unhappily considered Harry's words and, while he was not convinced that Dumbledore was the answer, he was well aware of the truth of the rest of what he said. They couldn't just wait until his father found him - the wait would surely drive them both insane, especially if they were living on the street. So he nodded dejectedly, wondering why every time Harry convinced him if something, it felt like defeat. "Okay, Harry. You win again."  
  
((There's a surprise: the weak, pathetic faggot conceding to the real man.))  
  
*  
  
Instead of going strait to Hogwarts, still Dumbledore's stronghold, Draco apparated them to Hogsmeade, saying that there was no way he was going to confront the Headmaster without a drink first. Harry felt oddly inclined to agree.  
  
This turned out to be a very bad idea and the boys found the town in ruins. Most of the shops had been burnt out or abandoned, and there was no one in sight - not that they looked very hard, rushing instead for the secret tunnel to the school, though not without stumbling across a decapitated body. They both reached the underground passageway considerably worse for the wear; but it was the that Draco encountered his second hallucination, much more vivid that the last.  
  
Lucius stood before him, his pants undone and his hands and manhood coated in blood. He sneered and said smugly, "So sweet you are. Such a tight ass. I never wanted children, but the Dark Lord was right about you. You are the best thing that ever happened to me. Did you know that you had a twin sister? She probably would've been the better Malfoy, much healthier, but even as a toddler it was obvious who had the more useful genes."  
  
"Draco?," Harry worriedly asked his petrified companion.  
  
Lucius advanced on him, malice gleaming in his eyes, and Draco couldn't help but back away; but in his fear he stumbled and fell on to the floor, only to crawl backwards away from his towering father. Wasn't he much bigger than usual?  
  
"I don't think I feel strong enough. We should do it again," Lucius growled, reaching out for his son.  
  
"Don't! NO! I WON'T LET YOU!" Panic and hysteria raced through Draco as he tried to fight the larger man off.  
  
"DRACO!" A sharp slap on his face made Draco blink and see Harry crouched next to him, a firm grip on each of his arms.  
  
"Harry?," he gasped.  
  
"What the hell happened?"  
  
Draco had a pretty good idea what had happened and scrambled to his feet. "Uh. . . nothing. I'm okay now. Lets go." But he was too shaken to lie well, his thoughts reeling from what had happened and what his father had said, and it was obvious to Harry what had happened.  
  
"What did you see?," Harry pressed, following Draco to a standing position.  
  
Draco swallowed and started down the tunnel. "Really, I'm fine. Can we go please?"  
  
But Harry wouldn't let him go - he grabbed Draco, with both arms and pulled him close before he could jerk away. "What did you see?," he asked again, softly, intimately. "Was it Voldemort?"  
  
((No. The little slut only has rape fantasies about his first lover.))  
  
Looking into open green eyes, Draco was compelled to be honest. "I saw my father, but he's gone now, right? So it's okay." He smiled weakly, his voice hiding repressed hysteria. Had he really had a twin sister? The idea was horrible, but incredible.  
  
Harry kissed him tenderly, soothingly, teeth gently clinging to a soft lip. "We'll figure it out. . . We'd better go to Dumbledore now."  
  
"That's what I've been saying," Draco replied with another meek smile, inching towards Hogwarts with Harry in his arms. Harry gave a supportive smile in return and moved with him. They reached the doorway then passed into Hogwarts proper, and then made their way to Dumbledore's office, meeting absolutely no one on the way. Harry made a few attempts at guessing the password (Snickers? Twix?), before the door swung open on its own and they climbed up the stairs to Dumbledore's inner layer, where the Headmaster sat in the large chair behind his gargantuan desk.  
  
"Harry, Draco. I can't say I'm surprised to see you," stated the wizened voice.  
  
Draco glared at him silently, and Harry took it upon himself to talk to the old man. "Yeah, well, I'm hardly surprised either. So, since you know so much, why don't you go ahead and tell us if you can help or not?"  
  
His words came out a little more aggressive than he attended, but Dumbledore didn't appear to notice. "I'd rather hear it from you," he replied stoically.  
  
Draco gripped Harry's arm, then interrupted before Harry could speak. "Voldemort is in my head, talking to me. Harry thought you could help," his voice more than matching Dumbledore's for its lack of emotion.  
  
Bushy eyebrows frowned and the man was quiet for an uncomfortable moment. Finally, he spoke, gravely, "Not quite what I was expecting, but I might be able to help. It will, however, require a great deal of trust."  
  
((Please. Just how stupid are you?))  
  
It was Harry's turn to frown, but it was an impassive Draco, filled with suspicion, that asked, "What do you mean?"  
  
Dumbledore reluctantly answered, "There is a rather unpleasant and quite obscure spell that allows the caster to scan another's mind. If you were willing, I could do this and uncover any hidden elements. Don't worry Mr. Malfoy. As I'm sure your aware, I already know your worst secrets - you have nothing to hide from me. But if Voldemort does, indeed, reside in your mind, then this is a very a serious matter."  
  
"No shit," Draco retorted harshly. But the truth was, he didn't know what to do - he didn't think he could survive with the constantly degrading voice and escalating visual hallucinations. And he had long been aware (and quite bitter about the fact) that the old man knew what had been done to him for so long. For most of his life.  
  
Harry turned his back to Dumbledore so that he could face his pale lover. "Draco. . . isn't this what we came here for? We have to know what's going on." He pleaded, despite the very real reservations that he also had.  
  
Draco freed his arm from Harry's hold and rubbed his temples and face for several long moments, as the two others watched him expectantly. "Okay," he finally conceded. "What do I have to do?"  
  
((You deserve every single thing that has ever happened to you. You do it to yourself and your stupidity could topple great kingdoms. Just wait and see if this next disaster cannot be blamed entirely on yourself.))  
  
"You two might want to take a rest first. This doesn't have to be done immediately." Was that a hint of wishfulness in the aged voice?  
  
"No," Draco responded firmly and immediately. He was not going to stay within the clutches of the old coot any longer than he had to, nor did he want to put off dealing with the voice. And he certainly didn't want to give himself the time to experience another hallucination. "I want to do this now."  
  
"Just come to me then. I will place my hands on your face and see what I can be seen. You will likely have flashbacks about whatever your psyche in preoccupied with, but it shouldn't hurt beyond that." Dumbledore's voice was tired and melancholy: he knew he was going to hurt this poor boy even more. No matter what the spell came up with, Draco would suffer for it, and he deeply regretted this fact. More than once the old man had thought that Draco was probably the greatest victim of this war and that he would have been far better off dead. But Draco didn't believe this and Dumbledore was convinced of the necessity of the Giver for the Light's ultimate victory. So many had died in the last months - allies, students, protégés, even friends. Even Minerva, his lover and greatest supporter, now lay recovering from a nearly fatal injury in the room behind his office. Each new death became easier as the total number grew, but he had begun to yearn for the day when death freed him from having to hurt the worthy for the benefit of the many. At what point did the good of the many no longer outweigh the good of the few, of the one? When did the ends no longer justify the means? Dumbledore knew that he had lost his ability to recognize this, but he also knew that he would not be able to rest until this war had seen its end. How he yearned for the day that he could leave this world and this awful role into which he had been cast. Or into which he had cast himself. Such distinctions had become inconsequential.  
  
Draco approached him as the condemned would approach their execution. Harry followed, but kept a distance at a wave of a withered hand. Dumbledore stood and sadly regarded the broken boy before him, then he gently placed his wrinkled palms on either side of the smooth face. "Devo regardae che non po vuorae."  
  
*  
  
Draco screamed as he felt the agony of the Cruciatus pulse though his body. He had tried to take the pain silently, but even he had his limits - limits that his father and Voldemort were always capable of breaching. But just as he thought blissful unconsciousness was about to come, the torture stopped, allowing him to recover for an incoherent moment before it began again in a new form. Rough and bruising hands on his beaten body, forcing his legs apart, vaguely allowing him to register the imminence of the new torture, then he felt something ripping into and through him and he screamed again. Some remote sentience rebelled, refusing to let this happen again; but it was already happening again. He was being speared, skewered, and his head was violently smashing into the wall with every violent thrust, splitting open the thin skin covering his skull. The blood acted as a lubricant, but it wasn't anywhere near enough to compensate for the pain that rushed through every nerved in his abused body, radiating from the inside out, and as unconsciousness again approached, he heard familiar words muttered.  
  
"Father!," he gasped, then he passed out.  
  
*  
  
Draco jerked away from Dumbledore so quickly that, on stumbling backwards, he lost his footing and crashed painfully to the marble floor. "You fucking bastard," he managed to wheeze between huge breaths. Harry was almost instantly beside him, cradling him. "What the hell did you do?," he accused.  
  
Dumbledore looked rather pale himself. "Nothing. What you saw in your flashback was entirely a result of subconscious choice. Indeed, I received the distinct impression that you are rather obsessed with it."  
  
"I wonder why," Draco snapped viciously, though his hands clung to Harry's support.  
  
Harry wanted to leave Dumbledore's presence so much that he was willing to forgo anger in favor of acquiring the necessary information. Angrily, he demanded, "What did you find?"  
  
"I can fix the problem," the old man replied sombrely.  
  
"Like hell you can!," Draco cried, at the same time that Harry forced from gritted teeth, "What is the problem?"  
  
Dumbledore sighed heavily, both feeling and looking his age. This was not going to pretty; he could only hope that their hatred for him would not prevent them from finishing their work for the side of the Light (or had enough lines finally been crossed that both sides were merely different shades of grey?). "The Cruciatus has damaged and weakened your mind's natural defences - specifically, the ones that allow you to ignore seemingly irrelevant information, among others. As a consequence, your subconscious is registering the presence of a nearly undetectable spell that has been placed on you. The hallucinations and the voice you have been hearing are probably your psyche's attempts to counteract this spell."  
  
((You see. Your own mind knows the truth about who you are. What you are.))  
  
Harry was, momentarily, too stunned to react, this being not any of the possibilities he had been prepared for. Draco, however, had much quicker reflexes. "What was the spell meant to do?," he hissed dangerously.  
  
In a rare display, Dumbledore exhaustedly pinched the bridge of his nose. "It was meant to make you more amenable to Harry here."  
  
XXXXX  
  
If you're dying to find out what happens, REVIEW! The next chapter is, like, an hour away from completion. Now its up to you to show me how much you want it. And hey, threats, begging, whatever works. =-) 


	13. Betrayal and Devotion

Reviewers: Thank you, thank you, thank you. Though you have really proved to me that the only way to get the love to withhold the goods. Sigh. . . isn't that how it always goes? (For the reviewer who asked, amenable means 'willing to acquiesce/agree to', and you should've looked it up at www.dictionary.com!)  
  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. JK Rowling is god.  
  
Chapter 13: Betrayal and Devotion  
  
"Guys like me look good at the gate. But you'll agree with the odds on the  
slate,  
and put your money on the bona fide heavyweight. "  
  
- Aimee Mann, Guys Like Me  
  
"WHAT?!," both of the boys yelled simultaneously. Draco scrambled away from Harr, towards the door and, whipping out his wand, positioned it halfway between the old man and the raven haired boy. His arm was trembling, but the expression on his face left no question to his willingness to use the weapon in his hand. It had killed Voldemort, maybe it would also kill the Boy Who Lived or the Headmaster of Hogwarts.  
  
"Don't fucking move," he growled at them, feeling terrified and suddenly very alone - the piercing loneliness that came from total betrayal, from being tricked and fooled. Dumbledore seemed quite nonchalant, but Harry looked rather traumatized, reeling and deeply upset from the turn of events. Less than twenty four hours earlier Draco had been a coma and less than twelve hours earlier they had exchanged vows of love, and the speed at which everything was happening was staggering. Draco felt a deep, sympathetic pang in his heart, but it was far overshadowed by his fear and anger. "Someone better tell me what the hell is going here," he threatened, sounding quite desperate and deadly.  
  
((Stupid, gullible, idiotic, thick, brainless, witless fool. Your stupidity is inexcusable. Anyone else would have seen this coming from miles away. You did this to yourself.))  
  
"Don't point that at Harry," Dumbledore soothed. "He had nothing to do with this. I was the one that placed the spell on you about ten weeks ago. It wasn't and isn't very strong, as it couldn't be without drawing suspicion. Of course you have every right to hate me, but you will surely understand one day." He wanted to say more, but he knew that nothing he could say could make the situation any better, so he fell silent.  
  
"I will surely understand nothing," Draco hissed, his wand now pointed directly at Dumbledore; Harry had finally made it to his feet and was also glaring at the Headmaster with no small amount of hate and horror. "Except that you have used me like everyone else. Just. Like. Voldemort. And Lucius. And Harry."  
  
Harry moaned loudly between hands clasped over his face. "How did this happen? How did this happen?"  
  
"Are you deaf, Potter?," Draco asked nastily. "It seems pretty obvious to me. I think it's just been explained rather succinctly," his nastiness coming from his fear and distrust - a fear and distrust of now even his own mind and self, the only things he had ever trusted. He turned his eyes back to Dumbledore and he demanded that the powerful wizard remove the spell.  
  
Dumbledore didn't really want to comply, for he had hoped that the spell would be the catalyst for future collaboration between Harry and Draco; but he also recognized that knowledge of the spell would work more against such a collaboration than the actual spell had worked for it. He would have more luck taking his chances with Draco no longer under his spell. So, reluctantly, he nodded.  
  
Draco glared at him, full of rage and distress. Without tearing his eyes (or wand) from the old man, he asked Harry for a final favor. "Whatever there is between us, however falsified, I trust you will make sure that no foul play on this bastard's part goes unpunished. He did this to both of us."  
  
Harry nodded weakly, not really knowing how else to respond. He had always been so hesitant and careful with regards to his heart, desperately protecting himself from just this hurt; indeed, he had for the longest time thought himself incapable of love. And yet somehow, despite his best attempts and defences, his deepest fears had materialized. He had finally let himself love, after an entire lifetime of being alone, and almost immediately he had been abandoned and left with less than nothing. And Dumbledore was the reason why - all his pain was suddenly channelled into hatred, and it could be heard in his voice. "Sure. He fucks up and I will fry him. Or at least go down trying."  
  
Draco nodded in confirmation. Maybe it wasn't love, but for the moment they were still united against the common enemy that had used them both. For the moment, they were still on each other's side and weeks of fostered loyalty could not be so easily shattered in a matter of minutes.  
  
Draco lowered his own wand slightly. "Hit me, old man," Draco challenged, eyes flashing a magnificent blue. Surely whatever the Headmaster was likely to do to him couldn't be worse than the present situation. He was so sick of this shit that even death wasn't such a bad end scenario - as long as Harry avenged him.  
  
Albus Dumbledore reluctantly raised his long, crooked wand to point at Draco's defiant form. "Finae cantenemo. Restoria consciensa origenalae."  
  
Draco felt the strangest prickling sweep through his mind, stripping away a curtain of emotional vulnerability. He felt the return of a true rage, and welcomed it for the strength and energy it gave him. A breath of fresh normality. "STUPIFY!"  
  
To Harry's surprise, Draco's spell worked; but he really shouldn't have been so shocked. Draco was certainly more powerful than he had ever imagined, but he should have known. He was the son of his father, a very powerful and shrewd wizard, and he was the son of his mother, autistic to the point of insanity but also more powerful than the vast majority witches. Furthermore, the wand he had been bound to was strong enough to defeat Voldemort, despite being in the hands of someone who was not its original owner. Draco was a Giver, yes, but he had power in his own right.  
  
Draco's face contorted in wrath and an overpowering desire for revenge, but the humanity in him forced him away. Destiny dictated, even to him, that Dumbdledore's path had not yet run its course. The cause needed people to do its dirty work and Dumbledore, like Draco, was one of those people.  
  
He turned to Harry and slowly approached the shorter, messy haired Boy Who Lived. Harry stumbled backwards, unsure who this new, angry individual was, who was towering over him menacingly. He tried to raise his wand, but it would not be brought so readily against the body that had so recently personified his love. But Draco brought a soft hand to his cheek, and instead of bringing hurt, stroked the downy skin. "I know this wasn't your fault, Harry, and I know you hurt, too. I'm sorry."  
  
Draco's own words came to Harry and he gave them back to him. "Don't be. . . it's not your fault." He felt frozen and painfully alone. Is this how Draco had felt after being deprived of the comfort of solitude, forced into the bitterness of loneliness? Numb and yet deeply injured?  
  
Draco's mind too was a confused mess and all he could make out from its confused signals was the need to retreat, to regroup, to recuperate. A shattering blow had been administered and time and space was needed for healing. With a last caress down Harry's sensitive scar, and briefly pressing his lips to the shorter boy's brow, Draco turned and strode from the office.  
  
*  
  
Harry barely moved for several minutes longer, and it was only the fact that Dumbledore was beginning to stir that forced him into action at all. He had nothing to say to the old man, and he hardly felt up to a confrontation; so he forced himself to leave the familiarity of Hogwarts, only to find himself wandering the streets of London, in search of a beautiful blonde who had once shared those streets with him, if only for less than twenty four hours. A broom found in the ruins of Hogsmeade had taken him to the nearest Muggle town, and a little magic combined with public transport had brought him back to London, but nothing so simple could bring him back to Draco. Somehow, he could feel that Draco was not wondering the same streets as he was, but the feeling didn't help him know where to find his love.  
  
After several lonely days and nights, Harry decided to go to the Parkinson Mansion. He was angry at himself for his emotionality, for this weakness that perverted his judgement, but he had not searched his whole life for love and acceptance only to give up when he had come so close. He was not a. . . man. . . that could fall in love quickly, but neither was he a man that could give up on love easily. He would not give up on Draco - if it was his turn to suffer and sacrifice in the name of love, then so be it. He could not even try to get over Draco until he knew for sure that there was no hope, for Harry was a sucker for seemingly lost causes and he believed that dreams themselves were hard to stumble upon.  
  
He disguised himself, hiding his scar and dressing aristocratically, for the purpose of deceiving the Parkinsons, and it briefly appeared to work. The butler allowed him into the ominous castle and led him to Pansy's large, luxurious chambers.  
  
"Parkinson," Harry stated as greeting, a foreign flare of jealousy making itself known within him, though it was hardly justified. She was still beautiful, despite looking years older than the last time he had seen her, and Harry wondered why Draco would ever want him, so plain and difficult, over this voluptuous angel. Sure the two angels belonged together?  
  
"Potter," Pansy returned tiredly, seeming unsurprised by his presence. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm looking for Malfoy." He tried for an emotionless tone, but dedication could not help but seep through.  
  
Pansy shook her head sadly. "He's not here. And you won't find him unless he wants to be found, but you've put him in grave danger by coming here."  
  
Her words confirmed the distinct uneasiness that had plagued him since appearing on the doorstep of second richest family in the wizarding community. "Why is that?," Harry asked apprehensively.  
  
"Our butler is not stupid; in fact, he is quite crafty and he's a death eater. Your disguise may have fooled others, but it certainly won't have fooled him and he is right now on his way to tell my parents," she stated matter-of-factly. Harry couldn't have know, but Pansy had some a talent for divination - the sort of talent that came from seeing patterns and details that others did not.  
  
"Then I will pay the price for my folly," Harry retorted angrily. He figured dying in the name of love was a far more worthwhile cause than dying in the name of Dumbledore or whatever cause the Headmaster had been using him in the name of. He had been expecting death for years now: he had certainly thought he would die in his confrontation with Voldemort, and had even felt somewhat robbed when it had failed to come.  
  
"That is where you are wrong. Draco will pay for this too." She sounded so sure and so wise that Harry couldn't help but realize that he had underestimated her for years. Somehow, she knew something of what had transpired between himself and the pride of Slytherin.  
  
"Draco doesn't love me. My death will be a relief to him - one less reminder of an unpleasant past," Harry explained unhappily and bitterly.  
  
But Pansy shook her head. "I don't know what happened between you two, but I know Draco better than anyone else in this world, even you. And he loves you, more than he has ever loved anyone and you are the first he has loved in such a way. This I know, and this is why you will always hurt him more than any one else. You can't find him, but now you will force him to find you."  
  
The moment she finished, Ursula Parkinson, a woman as cruel and brutal looking as she actually was, burst through the door, followed by a regal Lucius Malfoy and four additional death eaters. Pansy was no fighter, and she would not become one by fighting for Harry Potter; her only claim to fame was that she knew Draco Malfoy. She knew him well enough to interpret the last months' comments and behaviour and to form her own conclusions. She was not a woman of courage, but neither was she one of harsh judgement. She watched silently as the death eaters and her mother beat and dragged Potter from her room and was overcome with a sense of foreboding. One way or another, the end was near. She only hoped her childhood love would walk away from it intact.  
  
*  
  
Draco had been recuperating at the home of now blind Serverus Snape, who's company was made even more unpleasant by his injury. The potions professor (presumably retired) was not a particularly powerful wizard, nor had he always proven himself to be looking out for Draco's well being, but he could be trusted not to turn this protégé over to other side. Though it was Pansy that had relayed the news to Snape, word of Harry Potter's capture spread quickly through the wizarding community, Lucius Malfoy and others making sure the information became well known, and many interpreted this to mean that the civil war would soon come to an end, the death eaters' side having won. Draco, however, took the news rather differently. He still wasn't sure of his feelings for the Gryffindor, mixed up as they were with notions of anger and betrayal, but he knew he owed Harry something, if only for the artificial trip into the world of love and dedication. His feelings may not have been real, but he was truly grateful that Harry had shown him love, however hesitantly and twistedly. So it was not hard make to certain decisions.  
  
Which is how he came to be walking into the Ministry of Magic, now the headquarters of Lucius Malfoy and his fellow death eaters - indeed, practically the only institution in wizarding British Isles that was still functioning. Hogwarts was a shadow of its former self and St. Mungo's and the Daily Prophet were firmly under the Ministry's control. The fighting had lessened, with the tacit but fragile acceptance of the Ministry's authority, and roving bands of death eaters made sure that the people - in what was left of the decimated wizarding communities - kept in line. Such was Lucius' confidence that he even disbanded his legions of undead, releasing them from their bondage and allowing them to return to their empty graves (he had never liked using the undead anyway). Soon, all resistance would be crushed and power would be consolidated.  
  
Draco strode into the strongly shielded Ministry, proudly and confidently, as his father had taught him, amid the gaping faces of Lucius' cronies, supporters, and henchmen. Indeed, no one bothered him as he took the elevator up to the top floor (though they surely would have had he suddenly decided to leave) and made his way to the hall where his father sat like a king upon a throne and several death eaters stood guard. The blond leader of the death eaters was talking to a man dressed in military garb.  
  
"Young Malfoy!," Minister Malfoy proclaimed upon seeing his son. He stood languidly and casually approached the figure that looked so much like him, though he warily kept his distance. "I have been looking for you for quite some time now. I never would've thought that you'd just appear on my doorstep."  
  
"I have come to propose an exchange," Draco said stonily, his body tensely erect under his father gaze. He looked strait ahead, not even acknowledging the other's look.  
  
"Oh yes? And what would that be?," Lucius asked predatorily with a cocked eyebrow and no trace of surprise.  
  
"Myself for Potter," Draco responded simply and emotionlessly.  
  
This time Lucius could not keep the surprise from his features, but he took the declaration in stride nonetheless. He casually began to circle his younger image. "Really. And what's to prevent me from simply taking you right now, deal or no deal?"  
  
"If you do that, I will kill myself and this you will not be able to stop me. And then you will have nothing." His voice was so grave and his actions so monumental that Lucius took him at his word, despite having heard this threat from his son before. After a moment's consideration he consented. "Done."  
  
Finally, Draco met his father's eyes, surprised by his own lack of fear. He had grown up in the last couple of months, and fear no longer came so readily. "First you must bring Potter here to prove that he is still alive."  
  
Lucius Malfoy raised his eyebrow again, then nodded with a sly smile. "Goyle!"  
  
On of the death eater guards stepped forward (looking very much like his brutish son), and the Minister instructed him to go to the dungeons and bring Potter to him. Then he turned his attention back to his son for the duration of the wait. "You've changed," he noted in an unreadable voice.  
  
"Yes, well, things change," Draco responded, standing stone still as his father neared, and he didn't even flinch as his reached for him and traced a line from his chin down his chest and ending at his groin. Then he tightly gripped the sensitive organs there, rather displeased that this provoked no reaction from his son; but when a vicious twist elicited a sharp intake of breath, he said smoothly, "Some things never change."  
  
Draco bit his lip and said nothing as his father's eyes greedily ravished him. After several minutes and a few more traded barbs, Goyle appeared dragging a beaten Harry Potter and Draco had use every ounce of will power not to react, not to rush to him. He would have to play his hand very carefully to pull this off. "Is he still alive?," he asked indifferently.  
  
The elder Malfoy approach the crumbled figure and gave it a sharp kick, the moan it elicited confirming life. It had only been a couple of days since his capture, but Harry had had a horrific time of it. His wand had been snapped and he had been tortured creatively for several hours and then he was administered Veritaserum. However, the death eaters hadn't any idea of his relationship with Draco (indeed, they thought him interested in Pansy), and had failed to ask him the right questions. The truth was that they were not very interested in what Potter had to say, they were that close to concluding that war. They asked if he knew where the young Malfoy was, and he had honestly answered no; then they asked him several questions about Dumbledore, the answers to which he was sure they already knew; finally they asked if and how he had killed the Dark Lord. He confessed that he had and was, to his surprise, able to get away with saying 'Avada Kadavra' in response to the how. Satisfied, the death eaters left him in the windowless, lightless room in the bowels of the Ministery, returning periodically to beat and torture him again.  
  
Now he lay at Lucius' feet, barely aware of his surroundings, but somehow his hazy mind registered the clear voice of his love, bringing hope to the deepest recesses of his heart. He came for me. He came for me.  
  
Draco took his first glance at Harry, his heart swelling painfully. It was not hard to guess what Harry had been doing at the Parkinson castle, and though it had been very foolish of him, Draco was honored by the depth of feelings such actions betrayed. Indeed, he could not deny, even to himself, that whatever cause had allowed them to come together, his own feelings for Harry were genuine: he loved him, wholly and completely.  
  
"Let me heal him. Then give me some form of guarantee that he will be set free, and then I will be yours." Draco's voice was like ice, but the reaction was to his words was immediate and ferocious. Lucius was in his face, one hand seizing his hair painfully and the other crushing his balls. "You are mine. You have always been mine."  
  
Draco did not cry out, indeed he barely flinched, but a steel grip suddenly appeared on Lucius' jugular. His eyes flashed dangerously. "No. We are making a deal, and the only way for you to get what you want is to let him go." He spoke so softly that no other could hear, but the deadliness in his voice was obvious.  
  
Lucius was secretly both impressed and proud, though neither emotion would hinder his intentions in any way. He released his hold on his son's body and casually backed away. "Finally grown a real set of testicles, little Draco. I had always feared that crushing them all those years ago - remember that? - would prevent you from ever being a man, despite any reparations. . . but it is pleasant surprise to be proved wrong. You will have your guarantee. NARCISSA!"  
  
After an expectant pause, a tall, pale beauty seemingly floated into the hall from a side room. In truth, it was she that Draco resembled more than his father, though the fact that his parents were first cousins meant that looking like both was somewhat inevitable. Draco faltered for a moment at seeing her, it taking him a moment to adjust to the repercussions created by her presence. This would either make things much harder or else have undesirable consequences: he had certainly never intended to kill his relatively innocent, if quite insane mother. She was a victim too, and he felt for her.  
  
She glided in, with a quick and entirely artificial smile to Draco, and bowed before her husband, her long blond hair tumbling from her shoulders. Without a word of acknowledgement, Lucius reached out and roughly removed an elegant silver collar from her slender neck. Then he threw the choker on the ground at his son's feet, and said with distain, "That will allow you to see where Potter is on that globe near my throne. As you can imagine, your mother is quite in need of such observation, but if you'd rather look after your boyfriend, then fine. Go heal and collar him, then watch him walk away."  
  
Lucius smirked and watched Draco slink cautiously towards the raven haired heap. He kneeled next to the form, still except for the gentle heaving caused by every breath. He tenderly placed a hand on the bruised face and another on the beaten torso, then he mouthed the familiar words that would ease the injury. Harry curled towards him, and Draco smile affectionately, moving his hands to other spots on his lover's body and repeating the spell. "Anas rae helio, noches garath talla."  
  
Harry felt his mind clear significantly with the dissipation of the pain and he smiled up at Draco from where he lay on the ground. Then the smile faltered as the pieces of what was happening fell together and he asked in a hushed, worried voice. "What are you doing? I love you, don't do this."  
  
"I know what I'm doing," Draco whispered, gentle latching the collar around Harry's neck. "If you love me as you say you do, if you love me as I love you, and I do love you, then trust me. Swear to me that you will leave. Please, I'm begging you to trust me. I know what I'm doing."  
  
Harry wanted to object, but heard the sincerity in his voice and saw the appeal on his beautiful, angelic features. How much help could he be anyway? He had been healed, but he was still weak and shaky, and he felt like he had been hit by a speeding sixteen wheeler. Any fight would have been desperate, and he wanted to believe in Draco. He hadn't the strength to resist or to fight, so he agreed. "I swear," he rasped.  
  
With Draco's help, Harry struggled to his feet; then, with a reassuring look from Draco, he accepted Goyle's grip and allowed himself be led from the hall. The last sound he heard from the hall was Lucius' threat, "The day you kill yourself, runt, is the day I hunt him down. And believe me, it won't be a pleasant death."  
  
XXXXX  
  
Dum dum, dum dum, dum dum, dum dum. The end approaches: how quick is up to you. Review! Review! Review! 


	14. Sacrifice and Solitude

Thanks for all the reviews, those of you who bothered! Luckily for you, I am too discouraged today to solicit more reviews. More would be appreciated (as long as I don't get another one telling me to buy a Latin dictionary), but vicarious internet person expects nothing. Maybe I'm just depressed about finishing my story, my project, my baby. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
  
Disclaimer: Have I told you lately that they're not mine?  
  
Chapter 14: Sacrifice and Solitude  
  
"May you always be courageous, stand upright and be strong. . . May your heart always be joyful, may your song always be sung. May you stay forever young."  
  
Bob Dylan, Forever Young  
  
As soon as Harry had disappeared through the great doors, Lucius ordered his guards to leave them, then he advanced upon his slender child and took him captive. This time Draco permitted the unwelcome invasion and tolerated Lucius' wondering hands bruising him, his blunt fingernails scraping against his back, his fingers harshly gripping his delicate organs, his fingertips brutally pinching soft cheeks. Draco grunted in surprise and pain as he felt cruel fingers plunge into and invade his body, then his mouth was covered in a harsh, possessive kiss. "You ARE mine," Lucius hissed, mouth smeared with Draco's blood, from where he had bit down into a soft lip. "Whatever you say, whoever you whore yourself out to, you will ALWAYS be mine."  
  
Draco permitted the invasion, for the moment, keeping his emotions and reactions tightly reigned in, his eyes fixed on the orb that showed Harry getting into the magical elevator. His father brutally forced his fingers further into him, and he could not help but clench tightly and gasp in pain. He was twisted around and shoved him against the giant throne, its blunt wooden arm biting into his stomach. He felt his father's body pressed into his body, and he compelled himself not to resist, waiting for the globe to reveal Harry's safety. He registered his father's fingers again, moving, but not prodding into him any longer, ripping down his pants, then he felt a foreign body pressing into him. There were no candles surrounding him now, so there could be no purpose in the rape other than the demonstration of power and domination. Draco heard, somewhere in hall, his mother's thin voice begin to sing, in an eerie, warbling manner. He watched Harry leave the elevator and walk into the departure hall, feeling more detached than he had ever been from what was happening to him. He didn't let himself feel the pain, physical or psychological, and though part of his mind was screaming that it was happening again, the other part accepted, calmly, calculatingly, that, yes, it was happening again.  
  
His father forced. into him, piercing him, ripping through his guardian ring, tearing through yielding flesh and muscles; Draco saw Harry stepped into an enclave, ignoring the shock and agony as his body registered the brutal assault. With his father's cock buried deep inside him, now rapidly thrusting and stabbing, he watched Harry depart to the safety of a red phone booth somewhere in London. Now, finally, it was time to fight.  
  
"GET OFF ME, YOU FUCKING MONSTER!"  
  
Draco let go of his steely self control and welcomed a rush of uncontrollable rage and adrenaline. He bucked violently and suddenly, taking his father by surprise and throwing him off. He whipped around and hurriedly yanked up his pants in time (pain radiating through him) to straighten and take the brunt of Lucius' renewed attack. "How dare you, you little shit!"  
  
Draco didn't waste his strength by replying, as he struggled against the bigger, stronger man, trying to keep cruel hands from reaching his body; but it was hopeless, as his father used his greater bulk to pin him against the side of the throne. Draco, however, was too far gone to accept obvious defeat, even when Lucius had each wrist in a vice like grip, painfully grating his bones. He tried to kick out, but Lucius' weight was crushing his pelvis, and still the berserker rage would not give up. He head butted his father, breaking his nose with a satisfying crunch. The move didn't get his father's weight off him, but it jerked the bigger man's head back, spewing curses, and Draco lunged forward on instinct and sunk his teeth deeply into the jugular artery pulsing on the long neck. Blood spurted and Lucius tried to wrench away, but Draco bit down harder and didn't let go. His father's body began to twitch, then it collapsed backwards, Draco falling with him, on top of him, still latched to his neck. When the body stilled, Draco pulled up, ripping away the flesh gripped in his canines, mouth filled with and dripping blood. Only then did a semblance of rationality begin to return.  
  
He struggled to his feet, shaking from the adrenaline rush and spitting out the bits of flesh in his mouth before wiping the blood on his sleeve. He took a quick look at the globe to confirm that Harry was not in the Ministry and he was greeted by a view of busy London streets. Then he turned to his mother, who was platting her hair into tiny braids. "Mother. . . Narcissa."  
  
Narcissa looked up at him with a curious but rather vacant expression on her face. Draco would have felt sympathy, but he had once again locked up his emotions in favor of doing what had to be done. "I'm going to kill everyone and destroy this place. Do that alone spell you always do and you should be alright. Mother! The alone spell! And stay there for as long as you can."  
  
Actually, the spell had a long technical name, but his mother had always called it the alone spell, because she did it when she wanted to be alone (which was frequently). For her purposes, the spell was absurdly powerful, blocking everything - light, energy, magic, material, sound, what have you - from entering or leaving the mirror-like sphere that would surround the caster; but it suited the needs of the present perfectly.  
  
Narcissa began mumbling the spell and soon she was hidden, leaving Draco looking at a rounded reflection of himself. He was filled with such self loathing that he felt slightly nauseous and had to repress the do something violent and pointless. He had a mission to complete.  
  
He briskly and determinedly stalked to his father's corpse, the kneeled down to dip his hands in the bloody wound. He smeared the blood across his forehead and across his cheeks, in two parallel lines, then he coated his hands completely, making them like dark gloves. Finally, he stood and strode into the middle of the hall, if just for a greater sense of importance. He straightened his posture and closed his eyes, then chanted in a strong voice, "Io grannae Thee per liberia el energia mortarial che entre tuto. Poi, io te offrir mia vivo et el vivo di mio haine, per el balancia."  
  
It was ancient magic, as old as the sex magic that had for over a decade marked Draco's life, and as old as the love magic that had saved Harry Potter, and as old as the familial magic that still protected him. Such ancient magic was so rare and forgotten that it didn't even need to be outlawed, so ancient that it preexisted wands. In a handful of rare and archaic texts (one of which resided in the Malfoy manner, another of which resided at Snape Manor), this spell could be found under the category of hate spells - spells that drew their power from hate, and could not be done in its absence. The translation provided for the spell read, "I beseech You to set free in me the destructive energy that resides in us all. In return I offer you my life and that of my most hated enemy, so that balance will be maintained."  
  
The spell required the blood of the caster's most hated enemy (indeed, it was warned that the blood of someone else would kill the caster without achieving the desired effects). The blood was to be smeared onto the face in two parallel lines, indicating two balanced deaths, and to coat the hands, where the energy would be released. For obvious reasons, the spell had never been widely used - firstly, one had to have killed one's most hated enemy, a point that usually negates the need for such a powerful spell; and secondly, it was a spell that killed the caster. The spell released the caster's life force, killing everyone within a large radius, and it did so completely, leaving a body without the energy to breathe, or to even have a heartbeat. Draco had no idea what the implications of being a Giver would be - he hoped it meant that it wouldn't kill him, but he doubted this; and besides, he hoped more that his condition would make his radius longer and his energy more destructive.  
  
Draco's head fell back suddenly, instantly, as he felt something inexplicable, but very basic, be torn from him. His arms shot up of their own will, from the force of the energy flowing out of him. In a fraction of a second the feeling went from having his life torn out of him to having it cascade from him, as though eager to escape. He felt the ground shudder beneath his feet, and he opened his eyes fractionally to see, through a veil of long eyelashes, the wall in front of him crumble in a sea of blinding light. Then it stopped. The entire experience, including the chant, had taken a total of fifteen seconds.  
  
For Draco, everything was still - he could hear nothing, not even the beating of his heart, not the collapsing walls, and he could feel nothing, not even the rising and falling of respiration. His vision went blurry and he fell backwards, though he could barely feel his impact with the quaking marble. Actually, he didn't think it at all a bad way to die. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the curious face of his mother peering down at him.  
  
*  
  
Harry had been sitting just a short distance from the red phone booth that had led him from the Ministry of hellishly evil Magic. He didn't know what else to do, and he refused to simply go away. He would wait for Draco to follow him out or to come to him in some other way, or at least for some sort of sign, but he would not simply leave him down there. So he would wait impatiently for whatever he would deem was a reasonable amount of time, then return to the pit of horrors to find his love. Danger and death were of no consequence.  
  
However, Harry didn't have to wait long for a sign. It was well within the amount of time he had decided to give Draco when he felt the ground lurch below him. He was sitting in a Burger King across the street from where the Ministry actually was, but he immediately ran to the door and pushed his way out onto the street. People started screaming as huge section of the road suddenly receded into a deep indentation, and Harry was thrown onto his butt, where he watched in horror as several buildings on the other side of the road collapsed, crushing people and cars. Harry struggled to his feet and grabbed for his wand, only to remember that it was gone. He tried to move towards the chaos - to somehow help - but between the panicked people and the rumbling ground, he had a hard time of it. His mind felt as chaotic as his environment and time seemed to stretch, and he watched building crumbled and lives be crushed as in slow motion.  
  
Within forty seconds, a large section of the block had been reduced to rubble, but all that was likely to cave in had done so. People were standing around, shocked, some sobbing, and the sound of sirens could be heard in the distance. Some people, like Harry, were trying to help others from under crushing debris, but there was probably no one else who had any inkling of what had happened.  
  
Harry felt numb, acting automatically, a horrible sense of understanding pervading him. "Oh Draco, this was your plan?," he mumbled. How many people had died because of this? Were the deaths of all these muggles worth the deaths of all those death eaters? Were they just the casualties of war? He struggled to lift a chunk of cement off a small boy, though he doubted the child was still alive.  
  
Finally, the police, ambulances, and fire engines arrived, taking over for the civilians and forcing everyone else to stay away from the site. Harry, dirtied with blood (not his own), sweat (his own), and dust, finally allowed himself to collapse tiredly onto a curb and began to cry. "Draco, Draco, Draco," he blubbered angrily, cradling his head in his hands. "What have you done? I trusted you. You said you knew what you were doing, but I never would've let you do this if I known. You didn't even save yourself."  
  
A great wail of grief was ripped from him, his own words stabbing him where it hurt the most: Draco was dead. It hadn't taken him very long to implode the Ministry, but there was no chance that he had also had enough time to get out alive. Besides, he KNEW. In his guts, in his heart and soul, he KNEW that Draco had intended to die. It was why he had told Harry that he loved him. Harry felt betrayed - Draco was supposed to live and be his lover. That was the way it was SUPPOSED TO BE. HOW COULD HE ABANDON HIM LIKE THIS? Harry was the one who was supposed to die. He had never wanted Draco to die for him, he wanted Draco to live for him. This was the worst possible outcome - him alive and alone, and Draco dead. Because of him. He felt guilty and betrayed and alone and in unimaginable agony. It wasn't supposed to end like this.  
  
A dumpy, motherly woman sat down next to Harry and tried to comfort him, but Harry would have none of it. He stood and ran. And ran. He ran a long time before exhaustion overcame him.  
  
*  
  
Destroying the Ministry, Lucius Malfoy's stronghold and headquarters, accomplished what killing Voldemort hadn't. Lucius Malfoy himself and over a thousand of his most dedicated and competent supporters had been killed that afternoon, most of them by incineration, as well as thirty seven muggles (none of which had been incinerated). The only surviving wounded were muggles. The muggle world declared the catastrophe an act of terrorism and blamed it both on Israeli and Palestinian extremists, depending on who one listened to. The extensive use of magic and no small feat of political manipulation managed to cover up the existence of the Ministry.  
  
In the wizarding community, most of the remaining known death eaters either went into hiding or were hunted down and killed. A small few survived long enough to go to Azkaban. There were isolated outbreaks of violence, but for the most part, the resistance from death eaters and their supports was minimal. It was one thing to cut off the head of the dragon, and something else entirely to then chop its body into tiny bits.  
  
No one knew what had happened, not really, and Harry wasn't inclined to tell. He thought, quite correctly, that Draco would rather not have his story told, and, in any case, Harry had no desire to tell the world of his love and his shame. There was, however, a persistent and prevalent rumor that placed Harry at the scene of the catastrophe and, by extension, it was assumed that he was in some how responsible for the defeating the Dark side. Harry always declined to comment on such rumors, maintaining, quite unbelievably, that he had nothing to do with the incident. But people knew. There was also some talk, first begun by a handful of remaining Aurors, that the cause of the Ministry's obliteration was some archaic hate spell - but it was widely agreed that the spell was not destructive enough to do the devastation that had been done. Though perhaps if the great Harry Potter had been the caster. . .  
  
Slowly, efforts were made to restore the wizarding world to its former sanity. Dumbledore was named Minister within days of Minister Malfoy's death and his popularity was considerable. Masses of wizards and witches voiced their support and confidence by coming out of hiding and returning from abroad. Hogwarts was even due to reopen with a few weeks, with Minerva McGonagall as acting headmaster. Until then, Harry was staying with Ron at the twins' place (above their joke shop in Diagon Alley). It was rather crowded, as Ginny was staying there too, neither her nor Ron wanting to live at the Burrow by themselves. It was a slightly strained arrangement, as it was obvious that Harry was hiding something, besides which he was severely depressed, but the Weasleys were generally too spirited to be much bothered by this. Ron had tried to talk to him about it a couple of times, but ultimately Harry's moroseness convinced him of the truth of his words, "Drop it, Ron. Please. You don't want to know and I don't want to tell you. The past is over."  
  
In truth, Ron was hurting too, what with the recent death of his parents, and he very much sympathized with Harry's desire not to have to talk about it. So he tried to fix him in manly ways - they played Quidditch with the twins, they experimented with almost every single 'joke' in the twins' supply, he let Harry show him around muggle London, though the last was an activity that somehow seemed to make Harry wistful and pensive. His mood improved moderately after buying another wand, though it wasn't as distinctive as his first.  
  
Harry had only been there four days when Hermoine arrived. It was exactly a week since the collapse of the Ministry. With the end of the war, and Dumbledore's ascension to power, more official channels were dealing with the orphaned and displaced and Hermione was eager to get back to her boyfriend - though there was some noticeable awkwardness between her and Harry, simply by virtue of the fact that they shared a terrible secret. And neither of them had ever been able to relieve themselves of the guilt associated with that secret. Especially not Harry. Their first conversation alone went as follows:  
  
Ginny had gone to bed earlier, but the twins and the trio had stayed up drinking, supposedly to celebrate Hermione's arrival, as well as the defeat of the death eaters (though the latter had been celebrated ad nauseum). Eventually, the twins went to bed, knowing that they at least had to get up to work the next day. Ron stumbled to bed and passed out not much after that, leaving Hermione and a very drunk Harry Potter sprawled on the couch.  
  
"So what happened to him?," Hermione asked, direct as always.  
  
"To who?," Harry automatically replied, his drunken brain on autopilot for the moment.  
  
"You know who I'm talking about." Now her eyebrow was arched up, and the look was so familiar that Harry's face bunched up in a sudden effort not to cry.  
  
"He's dead. It was him who did that to the Ministry and he was inside when it happened." Harry covered his eyes with his palms. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.  
  
"Oh," was the only reply Hermione could give for a long moment, but she couldn't help but feel a wave of gratefulness and indebtedness. Draco had taken Harry's place in dying to save the world. Suddenly she understood. "You think it should've been you."  
  
"It shouldn't've been either of us. He wouldn't've been in the Ministry if it wasn't for me," Harry whispered guiltily.  
  
Hermione did not envy him his predicament. "I don't know what to say. It could've happened to a better person. Better him than you." Oops, wrong thing to say. She wasn't usually so tactless, but then again, she couldn't have known of Harry's attachment to his victim. She had also suffered under the impression that their recent trip into the shady side of morality had given her a certain right to be tactless.  
  
But now a rather drunk Harry was standing in front of her, glaring down at her, his fists shaking in rage. "You are wrong and you have no IDEA what you're talking about," Harry gritted out between clenched teeth. "Draco was a better person than me and he didn't deserve this. He didn't let me go to my death when I fought Voldemort. He saved my life at great cost to himself. And I couldn't return the favor. I got him killed! He came to the Ministry to save ME!"  
  
Harry's body trembled violently, but then his rage broke and he collapsed back onto the couch, rubbing his eyes and temples. "Just leave it," he mumbled followed by a whisper too soft for Hermione to hear. She looked at him speculatively: something didn't quite add up, but she doubted she'd be able to get any more out of him, especially not while he was in this state. Harry had always felt responsibility strongly.  
  
"I'm sorry, Harry," she said soothingly, getting up and walking towards the hallway. "All I know is that I'm glad he was able to save you, and that we all lost something to this war. I'm here if you ever want to talk about it."  
  
When Harry didn't respond, she bid him goodnight and went off to sleep in the bed she shared with Ron. Harry had been relegated to the lonely couch.  
  
XXXXX  
  
BEFORE YOU DECIDE TO HATE MY GUTS AND NEVER READ ANYTHING I EVER WRITE AGAIN, PLEASE READ THE NEXT CHAPTER!!! You will be happy to note that I have posted these two chapters simultaneously for just this reason. (And please review, for either or both chapters, though I don't think I can handle mean comments right now.) 


	15. Two Encounters of Different Natures

Disclaimer: I own nothing. See JK Rowling for ownership details.  
  
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Chapter 15: Two Encounters of Different Natures  
  
"You're the one I need, my real life has just begun. 'Cause there's nothing like your smile made of sun. In a world full of strangers, you're the one I know."  
  
- Shakira, The One  
  
A few more days passed, with Hermione's presence bringing a semblance of normality, until it was the evening before Hogwarts was due to reopen - ten days since the Great Fall (term courtesy of Daily Prophet). There was last minute packing, some minor drinking, and, finally, a pervading good humor. Ginny and the trio were all excited to be going back to Hogwarts, and it symbolized a return to routine - or, at least, an end to the horrible chaos of the war (and the twins were thrilled to be finally getting their apartment back). Even Harry was finally allowing himself to smile and laugh, his friends tireless efforts to cheer him up finally beginning to work.  
  
Little note was made of the fact that there was a confident knocking on the door, and Ron went to answer it.  
  
"Malfoy!" In the other room, Harry felt his heart jump into his throat and, after a frozen pause to recover from the shock, he sprinted to the door, the other three Weasleys and Hermione close on his heals.  
  
He froze again at seeing Draco, standing there in the doorway, his mind practically shutting down, and he had to remind himself to even breath. Draco was looking stunning, as usual, but better somehow, healthier, stronger. His blond hair glowed, tucked neatly behind delicate ears; his eyes sparkled like the ocean; and the hesitant and uncertain expression on his face ballooned into a handsome, genuine smile upon seeing Harry. Harry absolutely could not believe his eyes.  
  
"Granger. Weasleys four, . . . Potter," a smooth voice projected, eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry was stunned: his vision spoke.  
  
"What are you doing here, Malfoy?," Ron asked nastily, aggressively. He really hated the arrogant, underhanded Slytherin, and was highly displeased to find his odious presence on his own doorstep. "Changing sides now that your side has obviously lost, you snake? How does that feel, by the way? Or is it just that you can't you see when you're not wanted?"  
  
Draco looked taken aback, though in retrospect, he knew he shouldn't have been. He had just been. . . so eager to find Harry that he hadn't fully appreciated the implications of the fact Harry was staying with the Weasley twins (a fact revealed by the locating spell he had done on his mother's collar). He looked from Ron to the hostile faces of his siblings, to the guarded face of Granger (who had firmly decided to let Harry deal with Draco), then to Harry's blank, expressionless one. Suddenly, he didn't feel so sure of himself. Maybe he shouldn't have come. He could've waited to see Harry at Hogwarts the next day, but he hadn't wanted him to discover it that way. He hadn't wanted to wait.  
  
After an awkward and unfriendly silence in which Draco failed to respond to Ron's barb, honestly not knowing what to say, Hermione finally spoke, figuring she'd buy Harry a couple of seconds to come to grips with reality. "How did you survive?"  
  
Draco smiled nervously, feeling on very uncertain footing and not knowing how much everyone knew. "The classic way. . . magic," he managed to reply smoothly, though his smile would have given him away to an astute observer.  
  
"How did you do it?," Harry asked bluntly, finally finding his tongue - but just barely. His mind was still having difficulty grasping more than the basic thoughts and inconsistencies.  
  
Now Draco was growing very uncomfortable, very uneasy, and a little frightened. He got the distinct impression that he had made a bad decision in coming here, that he didn't belong here. Why was Harry asking him these questions in front of everyone? "Same answer as before, I'd say," Draco finally replied.  
  
Another awkward silence ensued, but when George began tapping his foot, Ron asked unkindly, "Why are you here again, Malfoy?"  
  
Draco's eyes pleaded with Harry, but Harry was still too numb to react. His mind was like a broken record: he's alive, he's alive, he's alive. Finally, Draco had had enough of the public humiliation - never something he had ever had much tolerance for. He beat himself up enough as it was, but his pride would not allow others to do so too. He wanted to yell at Harry, and to yell at his friends that he was here for Harry, but he loved Harry too much and had been a dirty secret for too long to expose him in front of those who mattered to him.  
  
Draco's stomach dropped to his feet and he almost gagged. How could he have been so happy, so excited just an hour ago? How could he have been so wrong? He couldn't hate Harry though, not really, just himself. It was his fault for hoping, it always was, he did do it to himself, he hurt himself. How could he think that things would be different, just because his tormentors were dead? If he did it to himself, then the death of others would never change anything. What had he been thinking, if at all? Of course Harry would never be able to acknowledge him publicly, could not associate with him, not even as a friendly acquaintance. Draco was scum, a whore, an embarrassment, a dirty secret. He had made a horrible, horrible mistake, and he was filled with such self hatred that he was sure he would do something violent to himself as soon as he had escaped from these vultures. Draco backed away from the door, with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, eyes wide like a rabbit's before a pack of wolves. "Actually, I think I've made a terrible mistake. I'll just be going now."  
  
"You do that," Fred growled.  
  
NO! Harry's mind finally kicked in, now that he was confronted with the terrifying possibility of losing Draco, before his mind had even had the chance to come to terms with the fact that he was still alive. NO! He would never let his baby, his happiness, his love, out of his sight again. "NO!," Harry shouted, finally managing to work his vocal cords. Then he forced his feet to work and he pushed forward, past the Weasleys, to Draco and overwhelmed him in a tight embrace, crushing them together, vanishing any distance between them. His hand made its way up to stroke soft hair and he showered the surprised face with hyper kisses. "Draco, Draco, Draco. You're alive! I can't believe you're alive!" Then he giggled somewhat hysterically.  
  
The Weasleys were staring at the two of them with gaping mouths. Hermione wasn't quite as shocked, but even she was surprised, though this certainly solved some questions she had. Ron suddenly gagged, Ginny giggled nervously, and both twins released an interested grunt: Harry was passionately kissing Draco - desperately and adoringly, his tongue lapping at lips and teeth.  
  
When they finally broke apart, Draco smiled shyly at Harry, who gazed intimately into his eyes, filled with wonder. "Really," he whispered. "What happened to you?"  
  
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!," Ron shouted, forcing the two lovers to jerk their faces towards him. Draco wanted nothing more that to bury into Harry's shoulder and forget his horrible friends, but he forced himself to maintain his dignity and stared challengingly at Ron, waiting to see how Harry wanted to play it: Draco was a good actor.  
  
Awkwardly, Harry looked at Draco, then back at Ron and the rest, then he gripped Draco tighter. "Uh, well, to make a long story short, uh, Draco helped me kill Voldemort and he saved my life. More than once, in fact. And he's responsible for totaling the Ministry, though I'm still not sure how he did that. I thought he was dead, actually." Seeing the outrage and disbelief written on the four freckled faces (Hermione was just looking interested), Harry continued, "I. . . I beg you, give him a chance. I'm, uh, in love with him."  
  
Harry was blushing the deepest shade of crimson any of his friends had ever seen him sport, but Harry was not a coward and he wouldn't hurt Draco by denying the truth; and the expression on Draco's face was more than enough to convince him of the rightness of his declaration: the beautiful blonde was looking at Harry with an expression of absolute, naked devotion and idolization. Harry had told his friends! Harry. . . was serious about him then, right? He had never not been a dirty secret, and the rush of hope and love was enough to make him feel faint, and his knees trembled. (In the background, Ron asked skeptically, "He's Draco now?!")  
  
Harry looked deeply into Draco's eyes, strong arms supporting him, their lips mere centimeters apart. "You do love me, don't you?," he asked, his voice betraying some uncertainty.  
  
"Of course," Draco gushed, leaning in for another mind blowing kiss. Harry felt his body eagerly respond to the perfect, sexy form in his arms and he buried his face into the flawless neck, inhaling the comforting, familiar, appealing smell of Draco.  
  
"Oh, Merlin. I definitely need to go sit down," Ron interrupted, sounding appalled, and he retreated from the hallway.  
  
"Me too," Ginny squeaked, quickly following him.  
  
Harry disregarded them, focusing on communicating his love and happiness through his eyes, wanting to be nothing more than to be alone with his angel. Finally, he felt too much to be content with this visual exchange and he asked, "George, Fred, could I please talk to Draco privately, in one of your rooms? Please. I promise I'll explain, but right now, I really need to talk to him. . . alone. Please."  
  
The tone of his voice was practically begging, and neither twin could hide the mischievous grins that came to their faces. Both appreciated that fact Draco was one of the sexiest beings, male or female, or even Veela, that either of them had ever seen (indeed, most people could say this of Draco), and there was no doubt in their minds that Harry wanted to do more than talk. They were somewhat dubious and suspicious about the fact that it was Draco Malfoy, but they trusted Harry explicitly and they were not so easy to shock or offend as either Ron or Ginny. Both twins knew people who had had things for the blond menace.  
  
After a brief, confirming glance at George, Fred agreed, a faint smirk on his face. "Okay, why don't you two take the workshop downstairs?"  
  
Hermione raised her eyebrows at him, questioningly, but Harry ignored her in favor of ushering Draco to the staircase. "Thanks. I promise I'll explain."  
  
"Take your time," George called after them snarkily.  
  
Harry latched the door behind them, then turned to gaze hungrily at Draco, who was curiously and cautiously poking around the chaotic workshop. "Wow. This is quite an arrangement they have here." Experimentally testing the sturdiness of what appeared to be a padded trampoline, Draco turned around and arched a sexy eyebrow at him.  
  
"Yes. It is. . . So what happened to you? How'd you do it? How'd you survive?" He wanted nothing more than to devour the vision in front of him, but business first.  
  
Nervously, Draco looked at the ground, then finally brought his eyes up to Harry's.  
  
"There's this obscure ancient spell that creates a massive sphere of destructive energy. The only catch is that the caster must sacrifice himself and the life of his greatest enemy."  
  
"Your father." So it had been the rumored hate spell.  
  
"Yes. I ripped his throat out with my teeth." Draco didn't really know why he told Harry that, only that he had wanted to. He didn't know how to feel about his actions (guilty? ashamed? indifferent?) and he wanted Harry to judge, to tell him how to feel.  
  
But Harry didn't judge, just looking a bit surprised; love, after all, is blind. "Did he hurt you?," he asked tightly, feeling as though someone was squeezing his throat.  
  
"No more than usual," Draco responded, trying to sound flippant.  
  
Harry spared no time crossing the room to him and gathering the thin figure in his arms. "I'm sorry," he professed supportively, nuzzling the pale neck and hair. He squeezed him, for his own comfort, hating the way his knowledge of Draco's suffering made him feel.  
  
"Don't be," Draco replied, grateful to be back in Harry's arms.  
  
Harry pulled back slightly to look Draco in the eyes. "How'd you survive?"  
  
"I almost didn't. I shouldn't have. The spell drained me of all life and left me for dead, the way it's supposed to, with the Ministry collapsing all around me. I had only a matter of seconds. But my mother was there, right? You saw her. I'd told her to protect herself by staying in this protective bubble, but she came out of it once the spell had worked its destruction, killing everyone. Because the building was crumbling, the protective enchantments on the place were no longer working, and so my mother was able to apparate me out to safety, where she healed me."  
  
"Healed you?"  
  
"She has latent powers, some not unlike mine. I'm actually not sure what she did to me, and she's not coherent to tell me. I guess my mother is just not a person that one can ever really know. But she saved me. Maybe she is more human than I have ever given her credit for."  
  
There was a pensive moment of silence before Draco continued, "I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. In truth, I only woke up a few days ago, finding myself at the Snape Manor, and then I didn't want to show up looking like the living dead."  
  
"Draco," Harry replied joked. "I would have been thrilled with anything that wasn't the dead dead."  
  
Draco smiled, though it faded after a moment. "What about tomorrow at Hogwarts? Are you sure telling your friends was a good idea?"  
  
"I don't want to hide, do you? Don't you think we've been hiding for long enough? As for my friends, they'll learn to deal. They're good people and they love me. Who knows, someday they may even be your friends," Harry teased.  
  
"Ick. Granger I don't mind, but the Weasel?," Draco replied with mock disgust, secretly pleased to no end by Harry's words.  
  
"Weasel, ferret - you're practically family." Harry's grin was so big that his cheek muscles hurt, and Draco was looking lightly appalled.  
  
"Don't EVER say that to me again."  
  
Harry smiled warmly at Draco, who returned the smile, and Harry was struck by how much more alive Draco was when he was being real. "I don't want you to be anyone but yourself ever again," he whispered softly, deeply, causing a shiver to run up Draco's spine. Harry lightly brushed his lips against Draco's, one hand tracing the delicate, sensitive ridges of Draco's ear, and when Harry's other hand stroked the bony knobs of his spine, under his shirt, Draco's breathing suddenly altered and his eyelids drooped, his mind trying to give in to the pleasant fuzziness.  
  
[(MANDITORY WARNING: GRAPHIC SLASHY SEX IS ABOUT TO ENSUE!)]  
  
The shorter, broader boy rubbed his body tantalizingly against Draco and Draco moaned, his mouth suddenly dry, "Har-ry.  
  
Harry looked into his dilated pupils: it would be so easy to seduce Draco into great sex, but what did the blonde want? It was not like their last arrangement had been entered into willingly, despite the greatness had. "Draco," he began huskily, trying to restrain himself, though his desire was almost overpowering. He had never wanted anything as he wanted Draco - not just now, not just for sex, but in general, and forever. "Draco, what do you want? Now, I mean."  
  
Draco opened his eyes, breathing heavily. "I don't want you to stop, Harry, if that's what you're asking. You make me feel. . . better than I have ever felt in my life. I don't know what I want, but I want you to help me find out."  
  
It was as much encouragement as Harry needed, and he claimed Draco's lips in a heated kiss, to which Draco responded enthusiastically. Draco's hands rested lightly on his hips, hesitantly holding Harry close to him, and Harry's hands were all over the place - ghosting and rubbing over his back, over ribs and hips and shoulder blades. When they finally broke their kiss, they were both panting. Harry freed himself from Draco's embrace and eagerly pulled his T-shirt off and toed off his shoes. Draco took a longer time, carefully untying his shoes, then beginning to meticulously unbutton his shirt. But Harry was impatient, and he closed the distance between them, taking over Draco's nervous struggle with his buttons. Then he slowly parted the shirt, trembling with anticipation, like a little boy unwrapping the gift he had always wanted: and it was all he could've hoped it would be, all he had remembered it to be. A flawless, pale expanse of soft skin, marred only by two perfect, delectable nipples, was enough to make him moan as his own erection ached and pulsed against his pants in a sudden flare of desire. He pushed the shirt from Draco's thin shoulders and croaked, "How about moving to the trampoline?"  
  
The padded trampoline was actually not that bouncy and it was only really used to protect Fred and George when working on jokes and stuff that required levitating and other floating and flying spells. Still, it was soft and blue and would serve their purposes nicely. Draco turned, with a seductive smile, and strutted to the mat, leaving Harry to trail after him, ogling a delicious ass and almost drooling. Then Draco sat on the mat and scooted backwards - Merlin, thank you for revealing to me the wonders of sexy scooting! let me be the material he scoots over! - towards its center. Harry dropped his new wand on the canvas, then dived next to him, eliciting a small bounce from the trampoline and an endearing chuckle from Draco. Harry quickly twisted around to straddle Draco's hips, rubbing together to drag groans from them both, then he bent over to nibble on a sinfully alluring nipple, causing Draco to arch into him, bringing their bodies closer together. After a moment, Harry sat up, so fascinated and so turned on by Draco's reaction that he used his rough fingers to pinch and roll the sensitive nubs. Draco cried out, and his hands shot out to grab Harry and pull him down onto him again - anything to stop the pleasure that was so intense that it was literally unbearable. "Did I hurt you?," Harry asked, mortified.  
  
After a pause to regain his breath, Draco shook his head. "No. I. . . It was just too much." To reassure Harry, he kissed him and shifted his leg to bring it carefully up to Harry's groin, where it gently rocked against him, drawing out a long, low moan from Harry. But Harry's impatience again got the better of him, and after a moment, he convinced himself to depart the wonders of Draco's lips to hunt for other treasures.  
  
He looked for a second deeply into Draco's eyes, his hands on the blonde's belt, making sure he was aware of what Harry was about to do. Finding no hesitance, he deftly unbuckled the belt and helped Draco wiggle out of elegant, expensive pants. His eyes suddenly hooded, falling upon the member that had haunted his dreams (though only the sweaty, erotic ones!), and he impulsively nuzzled its heat. "You are SO sexy. I love the way you never wear any underwear."  
  
Draco laughed at him, then pushed him off onto the canvas next to him, so that he could take up a position between Harry's legs. With a wicked smile and a hot arch of his delicate eyebrow, he unbuckled Harry's belt and yanked his baggy pants off, lacing his fingers through his boxers to pull them off too. Harry's member throbbed from the tension of being naked, so close to the most attractive, tempting body he had ever known. Draco wasted no time taking Harry between sweet, heavenly lips and Harry bit the side of his cheek to stop himself from fucking the warm, wet mouth.  
  
Draco experimented a little with his tongue and with rhythm, only having been forced to give oral sex a few times in his life (as both Voldemort and his father preferred to rape him in ways that would allow the power transfer), and he found it surprisingly enjoyable, making his lips tingle. Furthermore, he liked the control it gave him, absent as it had always been in his previous encounters with sex, and he wanted more of it, suddenly determined to lead. Harry watched the blond head bob up and down on his dick, until he could stand it no more, and he desperately tugged Draco up to him to kiss the lips that had tortured him so. He devoured them hungrily, feeling their intensity more than the aching in his loins. Shit, I love you.  
  
Uh oh, swollen sexy lips lifted from his. "Did I just say that out loud?"  
  
Draco looked embarrassed, but pleased. "I'm guessing you'd've left the shit part out if you meant to say it out loud."  
  
Harry nodded, then professed seriously, "I do though. Love you."  
  
Draco smiled and kissed him deeply. Then he straightened, perpendicular to Harry, and an awkward, slightly uncomfortable expression appeared on his face. Harry frowned in concern, and was about to inquire, then he notice a slender arm hidden behind the beautiful torso - he groaned and his head spun as he realized what Draco was doing. This, Draco had definitely done before, in preparation for nights of punishing torture.  
  
Harry struggled to prop himself, and patted for his wand, using it to conjure a blob of lubricant, though always unable to tear his eyes from Draco's. Then he sat up and wrapped his arms around Draco, "Let me," he requested huskily.  
  
Draco felt a distant thrill of fear, but he nodded down at him, gasping as a greased hand grasped his, winding their fingers together, following his middle finger to where it disappeared into his own body. Harry's slick fingers rubbed his ring, and Draco's eyes closed, breathlessness overcoming him, mostly from the intimacy of the act. Harry carefully slid his own finger in, side by side with Draco's, gliding them in and out together, before pulling Draco's finger out and replacing it with his two of his own fingers and pushing them deeper. Draco's voice hitched, then Harry's fingers changed their angle, causing Draco's body to explode with pleasure, and his legs gave out underneath him, collapsing him on top of Harry. "Harry," Draco whispered, voice thick with desire and love and amazement.  
  
Then Harry tore him out of his haze with his own words, "Draco. I want you inside me." Draco tensed and rolled off of Harry and his fantastic fingers to lay on his back and stare at the ceiling. Harry propped himself on an elbow and looked at him apprehensively. "What's wrong?"  
  
Draco was silent and expressionless for a long moment, increasingly upsetting the Gryffindor. Finally he sighed and tilted his face to make eye contact. "I don't want to hurt you like that Harry." He hadn't wanted that kind of control.  
  
"That's just it. It's not supposed to hurt, and I trust you not to hurt me. I love you, and I want to give this to you. I want to do this. Please, trust me," he pleaded, stroking wisps of hair from Draco's face; and Draco could not deny him.  
  
Draco smiled weakly before rolling over and pushing Harry onto his back. "Okay, you bad boy, you ask, I deliver," he joked, trying to uplift the cloud of seriousness that they had become enveloped in. Then he focused on the task at hand, trying to repress his nervousness: he had certainly never done this before. He lightly caressed Harry's inner thighs, gradually moving his way up, bending Harry's knees and spreading his legs, and listening as Harry's breathing increased in anticipation.  
  
Draco grappled for Harry's wand, repeating the earlier spell. Harry smiled encouragingly and Draco tried to smile back, but his hands were trembling. Finally, he decided that concentrating wasn't helping and he took Harry's erection back in his mouth, taking both their minds off the fact that Draco's hand had wedged itself between Harry cheeks and was messaging the tight entrance there.  
  
When the guardian ring finally relaxed, Draco eased two fingers in, the way he had always done for himself, still bobbing erratically on Harry's arousal. Harry began panting breathily and arched his hips up. Draco gently stretched and kneaded the passage, finally detaching his mouth from Harry, and finally really getting caught up in the arrangement. He looked up at Harry's scarlet tinted, open mouthed face over the flushed, rock hard cock and a Cheshire grin extended to almost the entire width of Draco's face. "Ready?," he purred, licking his swollen lips.  
  
Harry nodded. There had been a twinge of pain when Draco's slender fingers had entered him, but there was an oddly satisfying and completely feeling. He supposed it could have felt more pleasurable, but he forgave Draco for not knowing any better, for not knowing how to find his sensitive inner spot. He still wanted to be taken, and, indeed, he ached for Draco, to be filled until he was entirely full, to be united with his whole world. Draco lifted one of Harry's legs up over his shoulder, and used his other hand to spread Harry's other leg far to the side. Then he dipped a gentle finger back into Harry, retrieving some lube and slicking up his own member.  
  
"Last chance to back out," Draco whispered, voice thick with lust.  
  
"Please," Harry groaned, feeling exposed and vulnerable and wanting nothing more than to be filled by Draco, filled with Draco. "Relax, my love," the blonde said, gently parting his cheeks, positioning himself against Harry's quivering opening, then delicately pushing himself into the athletic body.  
  
"Nnnuh," Harry groaned. "Huh," Draco gasped.  
  
When he had inched in all the way to the hilt, Draco desperately tried to clear his blasted mind enough to speak - though Harry was looking quite dazed himself. . . and rather cross eyed. "Harry. . . are you alright?"  
  
There was pain, but it was minor, and Harry was feeling gloriously whole and he wouldn't trade the sense of completion for all the world. In fact, there was a desperate ache for movement, and the ache grew until it burned. He gripped Draco's strong arms. "Oh, God, Draco, move."  
  
With a rush of relief, Draco slowly pulled out, then tenderly pushed back in, at a new angle that suddenly made stars explode in Harry's mind. His vision blurred as all brain power focused on the amazing sensations that were shooting through him. Steadily, Draco increased his pace, regularly hitting Harry's sensitive spot, his own mind spinning with the perfect tightness that surrounded him, gripping him, so so close to taking him over the edge. "God. Merlin. Harder, please, harder."  
  
The words barely registered, but his subconscious was able to respond anyway, and pushed in faster, with more force, and Harry bucked into him, and there was nothing in the world except the rhythm, the heavenly, intoxicating, amazing, incredible, mind blowing rhythm. Wait, no, there was something else, something he had forgotten. . . after a confused moment, Draco remembered and he grasped Harry's arousal He began to pump awkwardly (masturbation and hand jobs had never been his forte), but the unbearable pleasure that seemed to emanate from Draco's fingers more than compensated. "OH GOD DRACO!"  
  
An unbelievable climax overwhelmed Harry, spurting cum up Draco's chest, his whole body flooding with pleasure, and forcing his reflexes to clamp down around Draco. "HARRY!," Draco cried, straining, then emptying himself into Harry. Then collapsing onto him.  
  
After several long minutes, Draco lifted himself and looked deeply into Harry's sleepy emerald eyes. "I'm going to pull out now, okay, my love?"  
  
Harry nodded slightly, lethargically, and Darco carefully extracted himself, leaving Harry empty, but filled with the brilliance and emotion in the oceanic eyes. Draco curled up beside Harry, facing him and stroking the light down on his cheek. "Are you alright?"  
  
Harry smiled contently and reassuringly. He was exhausted, but, truly, he had never been so alright in his life, and he pulled Draco a little closer. "I've never been better."  
  
"Well, God Draco tends to do that," Draco teased.  
  
Harry smiled again, and mumbled, "Yes, he does," before burying his face into Draco's sweaty shoulder; but he did not fall asleep before hearing Draco's whispered words. "I love you, Harry."  
  
*  
  
THE END  
  
XXXXX  
  
What did you think? Did I do a good job? Any confusing or awkward plot points? Anything left unresolved? If you REALLY want, I may consider an epilogue to settle any unresolved plot points. I hope you enjoyed (I certainly did). I also hope that you won't forget to review now that I have finished. 


	16. Never Say Forever

Disclaimer 1: I own nothing!  
  
Disclaimer 2: I really was planning to end it! But the muses came to me and refused to let me leave them alone, suggesting all sorts of further adventures and suffering I could drag them through. I'm a fiend, I can't help it.  
  
Chapter 16: Never Say Forever  
  
"You ruined it now, I hope you can't sleep and you dream about it; and when you sleep, I hope you can't sleep and you scream about it; I hope it eats at you and you can't breathe without me!"  
  
- Eminem, Stan  
  
Harry's eyes blinked open. After a moment of nothing, a rush of pleasure and excitement flooded him. He carefully turned to his side to eagerly feast his eyes on his luscious lover. He felt so content and peaceful and happy, and Draco too looked more at ease than Harry had ever seen him, sleeping restfully.  
  
"HEY, DOWN THERE!"  
  
Draco instantly wrenched awake and scrambled to the edge of the trampoline until he was backed up against the wall, a look of fearful anxiety on his face, and rapping his arms protectively around his knees. Harry himself was unpleasantly surprised and his head jerk around towards the staircase where a pair of shoes and shins could be seen.  
  
"YOU TWO BETTER BE DECENT, 'CAUSE WE'RE COMING DOWN, READY OR NOT!," one of the twins bellowed.  
  
Harry clambered in front of Draco, to block him from any unfriendly eyes. "DON'T!"  
  
But it was too late and both George and Fred had clomped down the stairs, only to stop suddenly with gaping eyes. "Merlin, I wasn't serious!," Fred proclaimed, then both twins dissolved into laughter. Then Ron appeared at the bottom of the stairs.  
  
"SHIT! SHIT! I'M BLIND!," Ron screamed, covering his eyes and convinced that he was now scarred for life, as horrible images of what had been happening flashed through his mind.  
  
The twins just laughed harder, but Harry was distinctly displeased, as well as somewhat concerned for the silent, unmoving figure behind him. "Would you get back upstairs! We'll be up in a second!"  
  
But Ron was having none of this, as it was all happening too fast for him to accept: he couldn't help jumping to comforting (comparatively) conclusions. "HARRY! You sold yourself out just to fuck HIM? IT?! Can't you see that he's using you?!"  
  
Harry heard a faint, muffled whimper behind him and he saw red, suddenly as angry as he'd been only a few times in his life. He expected such hurtful comments and behavior from his enemies, but he would not tolerate it from his friends. He reached back for Draco's hand and gripped it tightly. By this time, Hermione was poking her head from the stairway - she hadn't been planning to come down, but the shouting had provoked her curiosity and concern.  
  
"You don't know what you're talking about Ron," Harry gritted. "What part of we're in love don't you understand? If I sold myself out at all, I sold myself out for love, for someone who would die for me, for someone who deserves better than me."  
  
"Better than you?! Harry, this is insane! How to you get any of that from, from . . . from that evil thing? Have you forgotten everything that he's done to us? How much he hates us?" By this point, Ron's face was flushed an unsightly red, and Harry's face was approaching the same color; and the twins were no longer laughing.  
  
"Ron, don't," Hermoine urged.  
  
Harry slowly, tensely, moved from the trampoline, leaving Draco exposed (he dropped his head into his hands) and unconsciously stood. He tried to be sympathetic, though his need to defend Draco and his own decisions were overwhelming.  
  
"Ron. I know this is not easy for you," he forced out. "I don't expect you to instantly accept him, but please, PLEASE, give him another chance. For me. There's a lot more to him than you think."  
  
Ron looked like he was going to explode, but Hermione's hold on his arm, naked Harry's determined glare, his brother's lack of anger, and the subdued pale figure, curled up in the corner of the room, was enough not to burst the bubble of rage. Ron spun on his heal and stomped up the stairs, quickly followed by Fred and George (for once trying to be discrete). Hermoine threw an apologetic look over her shoulder and quickly followed suit.  
  
Pained, Harry turned to Draco, who had begun rubbing his temples. Harry was beginning to think this action was a defensive reaction to stressful situations. "Are you okay?," he asked gently.  
  
Draco raised his head and opened his palms to rub his whole face. "I'm fine," came his muffled, tired voice. Harry jumped on the trampoline, crawled to Draco, and tried to take him in his arms, but Draco jerked away. "I said I'm fine."  
  
He scrambled off the bed and quickly began to pull on his pants. Harry felt a rush of fear - he trusted Draco with his life, but he didn't trust him not to run. He went to stand next to him, but didn't touch him. "Please, Draco, tell me what you're thinking? It terrifies me when you won't talk to me."  
  
Draco sighed and straightened, buttoning up his shirt. "I don't know what I'm thinking. I know I hate being naked in front of people. And I hate being humiliated like that. I don't trust your friends any further than I could throw them. But I know you want me here, and I know you want me to tough it out with your friends. And what's this compared with putting up with Voldemort and Lucius, right? I'll survive this too, for now anyway."  
  
Harry felt a warmth of love, sympathy, relief, and a little guilt. "May I hold you please? Just for a moment?," he said softly, almost begging, filled with the need to be close to his love.  
  
Draco smiled, glad for the reminder of why he was staying. "Okay."  
  
Harry immediately gathered him into his arms and squeezed tightly, clothes rough against his bare skin. Draco squeezed back, though not with as much force, and he nuzzled into the dark, wild hair. Hmmm. . . Harry smell. "Are you sure you only want a moment?"  
  
Harry laughed and drew away. "As irresistible as that sounds, I don't really fancy another nude meeting with my hosts."  
  
Draco smiled affectionately. "Suddenly modest? It didn't seem to bother you before. . . Get dressed then. It's time to face the beasts."  
  
"Try not to insult them too much, please."  
  
Harry quickly dressed, then they went upstairs and into the living room, pretending not to notice the arguing that could be clearly heard. There was an awkward silence as they all stared (glared?) at each other, then Draco broke the stalemate by going to sit in a solitary wooden chair near the door and opposite to Granger and the Weasleys. Then he smirked. "Well? Aren't you going to abuse me some more? Merlin knows I get off on it so."  
  
Harry rolled his eyes (an action mirrored by Hermione), the twins grunted in amusement, Ginny looked horrified, and Ron looked ready to burst again. When a somewhat hostile silence followed his words, Hermione finally broke it. "So, Draco, how did you destroy the Ministry?"  
  
Ron's eyes narrowed in anticipation - Hermione had told the Weasleys a few scant details about the fact that Draco had fought beside Harry against Voldemort and that he was responsible for the destruction of the Ministry (though very much leaving out the whole Giver aspect). Ron had found it rather hard to believe, "Yes, do tell."  
  
Draco quirked an eyebrow, doing his best smooth operator impression. "There's not that much to tell really. Obscure spell involving the death of the castor and his most hated enemy."  
  
"Except you're still alive," Ginny said timidly, pointing out the obvious.  
  
"You think I'd give you the satisfaction of dying? I don't think so. There was a woman there with special healing powers. She saved me," Draco replied coolly.  
  
Ron leaned forward from his seat on the couch. "Why do I get the impression that you're not telling the whole truth?," he growled.  
  
This time Draco's eyes narrowed menacingly. "Because I'm not. But I in no way owe you the whole truth, so you're just going to have to be in the dark. Something I thought you'd be used to by now."  
  
It was too much for Ron, already close to his limit, and he launched himself at Draco with such speed that there was no time for anyone to react. Draco and his chair fell backwards, hitting his head violently against the wall, then against the ground. Then Ron was straddling him, punching the porcelain face furiously as rage and hatred flowed through him. How dare he leech himself to Harry? Harry was HIS friend! NOT this snake's!  
  
"Ron!," Hermione yelled.  
  
Ron was in no way small - he had a couple of inches on Draco (who was already on the tall side), but his build was broad and athletic, like Harry's, and it took Harry and George a moment before they were able to pull him off the thin, bloodied figure, trembling with eyes shut tightly, trying to force down the flashback that was threatening to overwhelm him.  
  
"Ron, you fuck!," Harry hissed, dropping down next to his boyfriend. He tried to dab at the bloodied face with his sleeve, but Draco jerked away at the first contact, then scrambled to his feet, his wand bared and pointed at Ron. For dangerous several seconds, no one moved, or said anything, then Draco began inching towards the doorway, suspiciously eying everyone in the room. He wiped the blood from his lips and eyes with his expensive shirt, then briefly looked at the stain and his wary expression twisted into one of anger and condescension.  
  
"You are such hypocrites! So fucking righteous, but do you realize that you never once failed to throw the first punch? I might be a total bastard, but I was never the one who inevitably resorted to violence! That was you! Aren't you just a little concerned about how easily you are able to justify its use? Are my words really dangerous enough to require violence? If I insult your useless, dead parents, is it enough to justify you killing me?!"  
  
Draco's vicious questions hung in the air for the moment, and the faces of three Weasley brothers and Harry were looking at him guiltily, though Ron was trying to maintain a veneer of indifference. Hermione was actually nodding - she herself had told them as much, though she too was guilty of raising her hand to one who had never raised his hand to her.  
  
Finally, Draco's anger faded somewhat. He lowered his wand and turned to Harry, sounding suddenly exhausted. "I'm sorry, Harry, I know I said I would, but I really can't deal with this right now. Tomorrow is going to be trying enough without this shit tonight. Nor do I fancy being murdered in my sleep." He shot a quick glare at Ron. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
Then he warily backed out of the room. Harry turned to Ron, looking as if he was barely restraining his own rage. He had to say something to get through to his friend. "Ron," he began, voice low. "You and Hermione are my best friends, and your family is like family to me too. I love you all, but if you make me choose, I will choose him. Because he loves me enough not to make me choose, and to give my friends a try, though he surely hates you as much as you hate him. . . I'll see you all tomorrow, hopefully still friends."  
  
Harry turned to follow Draco and had made it to the door before Hermione stopped his with a gentle hand on his arm. "Harry. I won't make you choose, and neither will Ron, once he has had time to cool off, though he may never understand. But I do, and I don't think you're at all doing the wrong thing. Draco may be a right prat, but I think you'll be good for him, and to him, and I think he probably deserves it."  
  
Harry smiled gratefully at her, then gave her a quick hug. "He does. He really does."  
  
"Go on then," Hermione fondly instructed.  
  
*  
  
"Draco!," Harry called, running after the retreating figure, distinct for the shock of blond hair and the proud posture. Draco slowed, then turned around (face healed), though he continued to walk - backwards now.  
  
Draco smiled weakly at him. "I hope you haven't come to ask me to return to that lion's den."  
  
Harry grinned, and shook his head, taking Draco's arm in his and pulling him around to face forwards again. "No, I thought I'd follow the dragon back to his layer. Where are you staying?"  
  
"I have a room in that inn there," Draco answered pointing to rather posh looking building further down the narrow street.  
  
"Yikes. Can you still afford to stay in places like that?"  
  
Draco smiled sadly. "The greatest irony of all is that the bastard left no will, probably because he was too arrogant to consider that he could die. And so the law says that my mother and I get the Manor and the Malfoy fortune. Father must be turning in his grave. Or he would be if he hadn't been incinerated into nothing."  
  
"Where's your mother now?," Harry asked carefully.  
  
"Professor Snape's looking after her - no pun intended. It's not like he has anything else to do. Besides, they get along."  
  
Harry frowned. "I don't understand. He's not coming back to Hogwarts?"  
  
"Oh. . . I would've thought you'd been told," Draco said awkwardly. "He was blinded a few days after school was let out. He was suspected of spying, but he had some blackmail evidence against Lucius that somehow kept him alive, if blind."  
  
"Merlin, Hogwarts without Dumbledore and Snape. I can barely imagine it."  
  
*  
  
The hotel room was elegant, with a large plush bed. Their early romp in the Weasleys' workshop had removed the desperate edge of need out of their passion, allowing a slower, gentler, and more thorough exploration of each others' bodies. Tender, loving caresses were combined with long, wet kisses. Finally, twin erections were rubbed erotically along each other, gripped by slick, entwined hands. Draco was tonguing his lover's ear and Harry was holding him close with his free hand, reaching lower to cup a perfect pale globe, then release encompassed them both.  
  
"Harry!"  
  
"Draco!"  
  
"Mmmh. . ."  
  
"Ungh. . ."  
  
*  
  
The next day Draco allowed Harry to lead him to Victoria Station via the tube - something that was possible because both had left their trunks at Hogwarts when dashing off to defeat Voldemort. All they had to haul was Draco's bag (with some stuff from Malfoy Manor), Harry having decided to leave the few belonging he had acquired at the twins' place.  
  
On the platform 8 ¾ Draco took a good look around, though Harry didn't immediately realize what he was noticing. Then he did: there was a conspicuous absence of the elder Slytherins. Indeed, the numbers from every house had been decimated, especially from the sixth and seventh years, but there was not a single Slytherin from the seventh year, and only three from the sixth year. Except, there was one familiar blonde. . .  
  
"Draco! You're alive!," Pansy squealed, running to him and throwing her arms around him.  
  
"Ai! I'm glad you're alive too! Now get off me, your breasts are crushing me," he returned affectionately.  
  
Pansy pulled away, pretending to be outraged. "Hey, they haven't grown that much!"  
  
Draco tilted his head down to inspect her breasts. "Pansy, they're huge! Absolutely stunning, but titanic nonetheless!"  
  
Draco turned his head and grinned at Harry, only to notice his flushed face. Harry couldn't help it, Pansy made him horribly jealous, which in turn made him feel guilty, for he was not someone very prone to jealousy and he knew that Pansy was the only real friend that Draco had (other than himself). But they were so close, and had been so for so long, and she was so amazing. Almost as beautiful as Draco. He couldn't help but fear that she was what he wanted - soft skin to match his, voluptuous breasts and lips. . . a pussy. Surely, after all of the abuse at the hand of men, he would want a woman? And what did it say about Draco's mental health that he didn't?  
  
Draco placed a hand on Harry's shoulder blade, "Hey, are you okay?"  
  
Harry forced himself to smile and nod, then forced himself to smile a Pansy. But Pansy was as perceptive as always and she laughed musically, "Don't worry Harry. Draco has never been interested in my breasts except to tease me about them."  
  
Harry, having almost recovered his normal skin tone, blushed again, and Draco turned to give him a searching look. Harry was jealous of Pansy? HE had made Harry jealous? He almost couldn't believe it. People had been jealous of his looks and of his money before, but he had never made anyone jealous because of the direction of his attentions, and he felt a thrill of pleasure because of it. Harry really cared! He planted a quick kiss on Harry's cheek, only to be sucked into a deep, claiming kiss before he could pull back.  
  
People were definitely staring, and Pansy was smiling at them, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care, and Draco forced himself not to. Then, typically, a familiar voice ran out. "Hey none of that in public! If I'm going to have to deal, then the least I can be spared seeing any of that!"  
  
Harry took his sweet time drawing away from Draco's sweet lips, looking reassuringly in his eyes, then he took Draco's hand and turned towards Ron - flanked by a long suffering Hermione and an apprehensive Ginny. Ron and Harry eyed each other warily, then Ron reluctantly thrust his hand forwards; Harry grinned and eagerly accepted it. "It'll be okay, just you wait and see."  
  
Ron gave a wary glance to Malfoy, then he nodded and, without another word, dragged his trunk to where the Hogwarts Express had just pulled in. Hermione followed him, with a roll of her eyes, then Ginny, looking somewhat embarrassed.  
  
"Well, that could've been worse," Pansy commented.  
  
"It was. Yesterday," Draco said dryly.  
  
Harry sighed. "Let's get on the train."  
  
Draco and Pansy followed Harry to the cabin his friends had claimed, though Pansy had briefly suggested that she and Draco sit elsewhere - but Harry's obvious flare of jealousy dissuaded his boyfriend from this idea. So Pansy took the window seat, opposite Ginny, Draco took the middle seat, opposite Hermione, and Harry took the seat by the door, opposite Ron. A long, uncomfortable silence followed, not even interrupted by the bewildered appearance of Seamus and Dean (Neville, unfortunately, had not returned, though his fate was still unknown). The two had made shocked sounds and complaints, but had quickly left when confronted with six hostile faces, not one of which was willing to say anything that might provoke other members of their cabin.  
  
Shortly after the trip began in earnest, the tension was eased by Draco's decision to promptly fall asleep, though the fact that he fell asleep leaning on Pansy was some source of displeasure for Harry. But he couldn't help but be grateful to her, if only for the fact that she spent the entire time looking out the window. Eventually some "safe" conversation emerged between the Gryffindors.  
  
*  
  
Days passed, then weeks, and the situation gradually eased. Seeing that Pansy and Draco were, in fact, the only seventh year Slytherins left at Hogwarts went a long way to allowing the Gryffindors to accept their presence. It was a slow change, especially given Ron's short temper and Draco's tendency to shoot off at the mouth, but with time, Ron's sensitivity lessened and Draco's insults grew less cutting, until their once legendary fights were little more than heated banter. Little was done to unveil the secrecy behind the origin and development of Harry and Draco's relationship.  
  
Pansy generated less hostility and developed a surprising camaraderie with Ginny. Still, she and Draco spent a lot of time together, and this continued to grate on Harry. Hermione and Draco also began to build a tentative friendship, mostly based on mutual academic and intellectual admiration. Harry felt like a third wheel in their interactions as well.  
  
These developments were accepted more readily than may have been expected, as the decimated student ranks, and the Slytherin ranks in particular, meant that some sort of integration was happening at every grade. Draco and Pansy were both the prefects of their house, and they spent a great deal of time helping and counselling their younger housemates; but if they wanted peers, they had to search elsewhere and the termination of the war had ended much of the inter house hostility. And having his own room certainly gave Draco certain peaks of which he had never before taken advantage - indeed, the fact that Draco spent much of his waking time with Gryffidors was definitely countered by the fact that Harry spent every night in the Slytherin dungeons.  
  
Hogwarts had changed both little and a lot. On one hand, there were new potions and DADA teachers, both more humane and normal than what the students were used to. Still, McGonagall ran the school much like Albus Dumbledore before her, though something missing could be felt in the absence of the old Headmaster. And, of course, both Gryffindor and Slytherin had new house heads - Trewlany for the former (much to their horror) and the new DADA teacher for the latter.  
  
Still, all good things must come to an end, and so too these good days: Merlin forbid the two lovers be allowed to be happy. On the Wednesday of their third week of classes (only a few days before Valentine's Day), change and disruption again came knocking, from not such unexpected sources.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Sorry! The next chapter will have more direction, I just need a bridge. Please, please review! Am I making a mistake by drawing this story out? Maybe it gets less interesting the further the story progresses from Rowling's universe? 


	17. Blink and It's Gone

Readers: To everyone who really liked the chapter 15 ending, I beg you to stop reading while your ahead. I want to be remembered fondly, and the next several chapters of this story will be venturing into 'interesting' territory (albeit slowly), so if you have reservations, do not proceed. For everyone else, I apologize for any incredible explanations, but they are merely my attempts to deal with some very problematic issues that Rowlings fails address. Please give me a chance to finish before judging.  
  
Disclaimer: Is there detail and an attempt to explain the inexplicable? Yes. Then I must not be JK Rowling. (Though, in her defence, my explanations may be so far fetched that no explanation would be better.)  
  
Chapter 17: Blink and It's Gone  
  
"And they shut him out of paradise, called him Lucifer and frowned,  
'Cause he took pride in what God made him,  
even before the angels shot him to the ground."  
  
- Van Morrison, High Summer  
  
Wednesday started out much like most morning these days did. Harry woke up before Draco, who tended to sleep later by virtue of the fact that his sleep was often interrupted by nightmares. They were not violent nightmares - Draco had long ago learned to stifle his physical response to them - but Harry was well enough attuned to his lover to wake when the Slytherin's breathing became ragged and he jerked awake. Then Harry would hold him and soothe him, and fall back to sleep holding him, though it always took Draco much longer to return to slumber.  
  
However, today time was running out if they wanted to make it to breakfast, so Harry decided to wake his sleeping angel (devil?). This, of course, foretold naughty behavior, for while Draco never woke with morning woodies, Harry certainly did. He carefully slipped under the green sheets and towards the pale, naked body that hid there, then he slowly, deliberately dragged his wet, hot tongue along the sleeping member there. Draco moaned quietly and his body shifted slightly; and, to Harry's pleasure, the perfect, mouth watering penis twitched to half hearted attention. Harry blew on it, then showered it with light flicks of his tongue, finally swirling his tongue around the pink, increasingly swollen tip.  
  
"Harry?," came a sleepy, confused, and somewhat frightened voice, clearly not yet having come to awareness of what was happening to him. So immediately Harry lurched forward, taking Draco fully into his mouth and deep into his throat. Draco's hips reflexive spasmed up and his head jerked back, a breathy keening sound escaping his lips. Harry wrapped his arms around each firm, long leg, and began bobbing up and down enthusiastically. Within minutes Draco was whipping his head back and forth, gasping Harry's name, and then Draco was coming desperately, Harry milking him for all he was worth.  
  
Harry swallowed the sweet liquid, licking the softening member, then raised up so Draco, looking absolutely dazed, could watch him lick his lips. Harry grinned and jumped out of bed, quickly searching through his section of Draco's closet for something to wear. He was as hard as rock, but he had become quite used to the state, as the number of times that Draco turned him on far exceeded the number of times they could conceivably have sex. Then he picked out a black and grey ensemble for Draco and dropped them next the dozing blond. When he bent down and kissed him, Draco lazily responded, then tried to pull Harry down on him.  
  
"Ay now, no time. We gotta get to breakfast."  
  
Draco nuzzled his neck, hand snaking to Harry's erection and eliciting a moan. "I have the distinct impression that you're not entirely convinced."  
  
Harry laughed and pulled away. "My libido can wait. The rational part of my brain says that food, unfortunately, won't."  
  
Draco sighed, pretending to pout, then they both began to dress. To Draco, the amount that Harry ate was positively obscene; on the other hand, Harry constantly fretted about how little Draco ate, continuously claming that he was going to fatten him up.  
  
They made it to the Great Hall fifteen minutes before they stopped serving. Draco took some bread, while Harry loaded up a tray with oatmeal and buttered toast, with milk and fruit. Draco digressed to talk to a few of the younger Slytherins and Pansy (who alternated randomly between the Gryffindor and Slytherin tables), then he followed Harry to the Gryffindor table across from Hermione. The two academics nodded at each other - for while they're relationship was relatively impersonal, both had to admit to liking and admiring the other.  
  
Ron and Harry were talking about the fact that Quidditch practice would be resumed the following weak. "So, Malfoy, what is the Slytherin team going to do, now that it's lost, well, all of its original members except you?," Ron asked.  
  
Draco raised an eyebrow. "I'm going to start training next year's team, but we're not going to actually be playing any games this year."  
  
"Oh," Ron articulated with disappointment - he had hoped for an opportunity to brag about how drastically they were going to whoop the Slytherins in their next game.  
  
Draco smiled, reaching inconspicuously under the table to rub Harry's inner thigh. "We do eventually come to the point where we recognize that cutting our losses is the only option."  
  
Harry had stopped eating and was staring unfocusedly into the distance, Draco's nimble fingers having moved up to grasp his now aching erection through rough fabric.  
  
Hermione suddenly remembered a question regarding her homework that had occurred to her the night before (besides, Quidditch talk bored her to no end). She had taken to running her potions queries by Draco before undertaking time consuming research, as it was a field in which Draco's knowledge actually exceeded her own. "Draco. Potions question: Why exactly do the ingredients of the Foresight brew allow you to have glimpses into the future? I couldn't deduce any ingredient interaction that could possibly allow one's mind to bypass the linearity of time."  
  
Draco smiled, Ron looked immediately bored, and Harry was beginning to breathe heavily. "That's because you don't bypass linearity. The nutmeg allows you to hallucinate, the healing ingredients allow you do so without being poisoned, and the unicorn's blood gives you an awareness of the past and present that permits your mind to extrapolate the future, which you then see as a hallucination. That is why it can't predict radically unexpected events."  
  
Hermione pondered this for a moment. "Harry, are you alright?," Ron suddenly asked.  
  
Harry suddenly rose, grateful for the school robes and face quite flushed and sweaty. "I've, uh, forgotten something." Then he dashed from the Great Hall, as fast as one could with a raging hard on.  
  
Draco smirked. "He's fine."  
  
*  
  
In the nearest bathroom, Harry locked his stall and, leaning against the door, unbuttoned his uncomfortably tight pants. He gripped his dribbling arousal and quickly began jerking off, imagining that it was Draco's sexy fingers clutching him, that it was Draco's perfect lips sucking him, that it was Draco firm, tight ass clenching around him so completely. . . With a grunt, he came all over his hand.  
  
He quickly wiped his hands on the toilet paper, then slashed some cold water on his warm face. Oooh, he was definitely going to have his revenge for this one. . .  
  
Harry returned to his seat, only to be confronted with three very sober faces. "What is it?," he asked, suddenly apprehensive.  
  
Hermione and Ron appeared to wait for Draco to say something, but when he didn't (and, in fact, tilted his face away from Harry), Hermione took up the responsibility. "The Minister just came by looking for you. He's gone to his old office to speak with Professor McGonagall, but he wants you to go meet him up there. He looks. . . older somehow. Sickly."  
  
Harry frowned with displeasure. "Harry, do you have any idea what he wants?," Ron asked.  
  
Harry shook his head, then stood uneasily. He had a very bad feeling about this. Trouble followed Dumbledore around like a stray puppy - like a hell hound. He didn't want to do this by himself. Looking down at the figure that was facing away from him, he asked, "Please come with me."  
  
Draco turned around and looked into insecure eyes, then he nodded. In truth, it would make him feel better too, not to have Harry meet with Dumbledore alone. He stood, they bid farewell to Hermione and Ron, then strode from the Great Hall. Ron put his arm around Hermione and they gripped each others' hands, both feeling an unexplainable apprehension for the departed couple. The Ron gently kissed his girlfriend, feeling the need to reaffirm love and goodness in the face of such ominous tidings.  
  
*  
  
Hermione was right. Minister Dumbledore was looking frail and old as he had never before. He looked. . . ill, like he was. . . dying. Acting headmaster McGonagall had given up 'her' seat behind the magnificent desk and he was slumped in it, hands gripping at the chair's arms as if to prevent him from slipping onto the floor. McGonagall was standing behind him.  
  
The first words spoken by Harry were, "Minister! Are you all right?" Even after all those years of betrayals, his concern was brought forward by Dumbledore's feeble state. The old man smiled, pleased and touched that Harry still cared - he wouldn't for much longer.  
  
"I am as well as can be expected, Harry. Draco." He smiled and nodded at the two boys. Draco nodded back curtly, keeping close to the door while Harry approached the desk.  
  
Harry returned to his more wary state. "You wanted to see me, sir?"  
  
"Yes. . . How are you faring Harry? Things going well between you and Draco? Feeling rested after your ordeal?"  
  
Of course, these questions did nothing to ease Harry's suspicions. "Everything it pretty good, sir. Uh, is there something specific that you wanted to talk to me about? I don't want to be rude, but I presume there is a reason you have called me here."  
  
"Tea?," he asked, motioning to both Harry and Draco. After two negative replies, he finally got down to business. "You're right Harry, of course. I wish this was a social call, but it's not. This is going to sound very sudden, but the United States government has approached me with a proposition regarding you."  
  
Harry couldn't see Draco's expression, but his own was one of shock. "The United States government?!," he exclaimed.  
  
"Yes, well, the Department of Magical Affairs, a secret subsection of the government proper. Their administration is structured somewhat differently from ours. The Secretary of Magical Affairs wants to hire your services."  
  
"What?!" Harry was absolutely stunned; he gave into his urge and he whipped around to glace at Draco's reaction. It was absolutely expressionless, which said something in itself.  
  
Then McGonagall spoke up. "Have you ever wondered why the United States, our long time ally, never helped us deal with Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy? Mainland Europe wants nothing to do with our politics, they come from different magical traditions than us, but the American magical community comes from the same traditions that we still have, and has always shown solidarty with us - they even helped fight Voldemort the first time he came to power. But over the last few years, they have had their own problems - insurgents, rebels, terrorists. And, recently, the unrest in the magical community has begun to coagulate under one man, Pat Robinson - a man who is also finding support amongst the more gullible muggles."  
  
Harry knew nothing of this - he was quite Anglo-centric and, beyond that, Euro-centric. Draco knew about such developments (Pat Robinson, in the muggle world, was an evangelist for the Christian Right), but it was not a topic that had ever come up between them. Draco also thought he knew where this conversation was leading, more so than Harry at any rate. "So, what exactly does this have to do with me?"  
  
Dumbdledore sighed. "You're famous. Even over there. They know you defeated Voldemort and Malfoy and their army -"  
  
"Most of that wasn't even me!," Harry interrupted.  
  
"It doesn't matter," McGonagall continued. "They think you did. Yes, they want you to come and lend your expertise, but what the government really wants is to use you to mobilize the population. The people are discouraged and this is making it easier for Pat Robinson to rest control for the government. They hope that by bringing you in on their side, morale will be raised, faith in the government restored, and peace returned."  
  
"They want to use you to win the propaganda war," Draco said bitterly, speaking for the first time. "And what does Harry get out of this?"  
  
Harry was frowning, but Dumbledore answered. "Money mostly, though the Department of Magical Affairs is certainly willing to negotiate, depending on what you want. . . But, Harry, this could save a lot of lives, help a lot of innocent people. Hopefully the satisfaction of such accomplishments would be enough."  
  
Draco snorted behind him, but Harry only frowned more deeply. "When and for how long?"  
  
"Harry!," Draco hissed - he wasn't actually considering going, was he? Of course he was, his thoughts immediately responded, and a feeling of dejectedness began to creep into him.  
  
Harry ignored his boyfriend and listened to what Dumbledore was saying. "They'd like you to come as soon as possible, tomorrow in fact, and you'll be debriefed once you get there. They'd like you to stay indefinitely, though really, only as long as you are willing."  
  
Harry pondered the proposition for a moment, then whipped around at the sound of the door slamming: Draco was gone. Harry slowly turned back to Dumbledore and McGonagall, looking slightly exasperated. His mind was racing around and he didn't know what to think. The proposal was insane and barely conceivable to Harry, but Dumbledore knew the Gryffindor well, and had appealed to him in a way that he could not possibly refuse. "Could I have the night to think about it?"  
  
"Of course, take your time," the Minister said generously. "I won't be leaving until tomorrow evening, so you have until then, if you want me to accompany you."  
  
"Thank you, sir," Harry said tightly, nodding to him and the Headmaster, then he fled the room, honestly not knowing what to think. . . except that he had to find Draco.  
  
He travelled down several staircases to the dungeon, through the Slytherin common room (by now he knew both the password and many of the inhabitants), and knocked on Draco's door. When no reply came, Harry tried the doorknob and pushed open the door. The blonde was lying still and flat on his bed, staring up expressionlessly at the ceiling with unblinking eyes.  
  
"Draco?," Harry asked nervously, uncertain of Draco's mood and reaction. He walked to the bed and sat niftily on its edge.  
  
Draco blinked once before answering. "You're going to go, aren't you?" He knew the answer but he could not help the sliver of hope that persisted. Draco hated hope - it was a weakness that wounded and that could be manipulated. He had felt so much stronger when he was living his hateful, hopeless existence.  
  
Harry frowned. "I don't know. Do you think I should?"  
  
Draco jerked up into a sitting position, face desperate and voice cracking, "No! This proposal stinks, and I don't think you can trust the American government to be on the right side of this affair. My father had a number of close contacts on both sides." He grabbed Harry's hand. "Harry, please! Don't leave me! We've only just found peace, and I have a very bad feeling about this."  
  
Draco looked as though he was going to continue on, but then his jaw suddenly clamped shut: he would not beg. He knew, inexplicably, that he would lose Harry, hope be damned, but he would not part with his dignity too. His voice twisted into distain, "Why do you ask me? You already know what you're going to do."  
  
It was true, for sometimes Draco understood Harry better than Harry understood himself, and he knew that Harry would do what he thought was the good and heroic duty - and his love for Draco could not possibly compete with that. In the end, Harry was a hero, not a lover, and he would always abandon the needs of the one for the needs of the many. The swirling clouds in Harry's mind faded, then he too was confronted with the truth: he had to go, had to help and it was a drive he could not deny. So Harry nodded.  
  
Draco drew up into a tight ball. A horrible pit of pain suddenly ballooned in his throat, his stomach twisted viciously, and he was overcome by an icy chill of dread and hurt that caused bumps to rise across his skin. Harry reached out a comforting hand and tried to apologize. "Draco, I'm sorry. . ."  
  
Draco wrenched away from Harry's touch like he burned, scrambling off the bed. "Get out," he gritted, looking furious and pointing towards the door.  
  
Draco's reaction hurt, though it couldn't have been entirely unexpected. "Don't do this, Draco, please. I want our remaining time together to be. . ."  
  
"FUCK YOU, POTTER! I'm not letting you get anywhere near me after you've done this to me! I don't want to see your ugly, betraying face at all, nor do I want to hear any of your useless excuses and worthless proclamations of love! HA! And if you think I'm going to let you rip my heart out and then roll over and take it up the ass, you've got another thing coming! I know the truth - that you only liked me when you could think of me as something to save! You are going to fucking regret this, Potter! You will regret this so much that you will hate yourself more than you have ever thought possible!" Draco's fists were clenched tightly, his skin was flushed, and his eyes were wild.  
  
But now Harry was angry. How dare Draco hold it against him for doing the right thing? How dare he be so self centred? "Oh yeah?! Are you THREATENING me?! What are you going to do to me, Draco, huh?! What!? Curse me?! I'd like to see you try!"  
  
Draco's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his voice lowered to a hiss. "I don't have to threaten you. I don't have to do anything at all. You're going to regret this one all on your own. Mark my words and just you wait and see. You've made a terrible mistake here today, and it is your misfortune that you will live to regret it. . . Now get out of my room, Potter."  
  
A shiver ran up Harry's spine, and he was hit with a wave of nauseating apprehension - in the hidden recesses of his mind, his subconscious was agreeing with Draco, extrapolating from past events some hidden future disaster - but it was no feeling anyone in their right mind could act upon. Gut reactions simply do not compare to ingrained convictions, and Harry was convinced of the rightness of his decision. Regretfully, he walked to the door and left the room.  
  
*  
  
Ron and Hermione were sitting in the Gryffindor common room, both with mouths somewhat agape, and neither quite believing what Harry had just told them.  
  
"You're going to America?! Tomorrow?!," Ron parroted, disbelief evident in his tone.  
  
Hermione was frowning - she, like Draco, knew more than Harry (and Ron) about the state of affairs in the United States. "Harry, are you sure this is a good idea? You barely know what the situation over there is."  
  
"I know that there are people who need help, and that the American versions of death eaters are terrorizing the population. If I can save just a few lives, spare the suffering of just a handful, then it is worth doing."  
  
Hermione did not look happy, and Ron still looked incredulous. "Harry, this is crazy! You can't go to America! You don't even know anybody over there!"  
  
"I can take care of myself. Besides, I thought you'd be on my side. Helping them is the right thing to do," Harry replied, getting a little irritated. Why was everyone so against this idea? He looked between his two old friends.  
  
Hermione sighed. "What about Malfoy?" (Calling him Malfoy was not a habit Hermione found easy to break, nor one that Ron wanted to break.)  
  
Harry groaned and looked unhappy. "He's pretty upset," Harry said meekly.  
  
Hermione felt a sympathetic ache for Draco. She hadn't allowed herself to feel too deeply about him, about the suffering he'd gone through, but now she did. She had never really needed to before - Harry had been on his side - but now that she suddenly did. Harry was leaving Draco? After all he had been through? Her original defensive urge for the unknown Giver now flared up again, now that he apparently had no one else looking out for him: Draco needed someone. "You're leaving him?," she asked with a grimace.  
  
Harry looked pained. "I don't want to, but he's not willing to wait for me."  
  
"Not willing to wait for you, Harry?! I seriously doubt he wants you to leave! Do you realize what you're probably doing to him?," Hermione moaned, sounding upset.  
  
"I know," Harry replied defeatedly, his admission followed by an uncomfortable, unhappy silence. Finally, he spoke again. "Hermione, look after him while I'm gone, please. He hates me now, but he doesn't deserve to be alone. He needs someone. . . to care for him."  
  
Ron tried to object, but Hermione immediately agreed. "Of course."  
  
"Hermione!," Ron hissed, his distrust for the Slytherin flaring up now that he was apparently moving in on his territory.  
  
"No, Ron," Hermione hissed back. "I know you don't realize the magnitude of what Harry's doing right now, but trust me when I say that he is THOROUGHLY screwing Draco over, and is hurting him more than either of them probably realize. And trust me when I say that he REALLY has suffered enough. I'm not going to let Harry leave him completely alone. He'll probably not want my company, but I will provide any support I can."  
  
Ron looked cowed and Harry looked like he hated himself. Finally, the desire to be alone, and to nurse his pain, was too much and he got up to leave.  
  
"Harry," Hermione called after him. Harry hesitantly turned around. "You don't have to leave, you know. The world will spin without you. And he doesn't hate you, you know that. He loves you. Even if he is being unreasonable, think what you're giving up by doing this. Think about what you're doing to him. You may save a bunch of Americans, if you leave, but you will be failing to save Draco."  
  
Harry nodded sadly, then walked away. He wanted to stay, but his path was set and he could feel it. It felt horribly like fate - Harry would know, fate had made most of his decisions for him. Or so it seemed.  
  
*  
  
Draco stood in front of his mirror, staring hatefully at his reflection and the hurt consuming him. So he wasn't worth it, eh? Wasn't worth staying for? Had he really been just another victim to save? The rational part of his brain didn't believe it, but it felt so true.  
  
Draco ground his teeth, feeling a little insane, a little hysterical. He suddenly punched the mirror, then savoured the pain that radiated through his fist and up his arm - the same fist he had rammed into his wall a couple of months ago. No. This time he would not use the shards of glass to stab himself, to brutally wound himself, though he desperately wanted to; this time his pride demanded that he hold together, that he cut off the feelings of agony and abandonment that coursed through him. So he was alone, he had been used to the loneliness, surely he could become so again: alone and strong. He would deal, he would survive. He always did, didn't he? He was the human cockroach, repulsive and depraved, broken even, but impossible to kill. Harry was right, he wasn't a victim, he was a survivor. Each wound made him less human, but somehow he would survive them all.  
  
And he would allow himself, just this once, to cry for his loss, for Harry, but never again. This was all Harry would get from him, and all he had to give, then he would give no more. So he sunk to the aground in defeat, amid broken glass, and cried silently all night. He had lost this battle with himself, but he would not lose the war.  
  
XXXXX  
  
For those of you who may not be up on American culture and politics (and fanaticism), Pat Robinson is a real person. He is an evangelist for the Christian Right, and a PSYCHOTIC NEO NAZI. Oh yeah, and he also ran for president once. I have nothing against religion or Christianity, but this guy is unbelievable and makes everyone else look bad. To read the words of EVIL (straight for Satan's mouth), take a look at the following web site, which I highly recommend for its more frightening look at the kind of bigoted assholes that are actually able to be public figures:  
  
And I apologize if the turn this story has taken is not to your liking. May I reassure you by saying that the story is not going to progress in the way you are likely imagining it will. 


	18. Someone Unknown

Disclaimer: I own nothing.  
  
Reviewers: Please review. Forfeiting my dignity, I beg.  
  
Chapter 18: Someone Unknown  
  
"Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear, I sentence you to be exposed by before your peers. Tear down the wall!"  
  
- Pink Floyd, The Judge  
  
Harry tried to talk to Draco several times that day, and the next, but the blonde steadfastly avoided him. He stayed away from the trio and the Great Hall, only to ignore Harry during potions and DADA (which the dark haired boy only attended to get the opportunity to stare regretfully and then try, and fail, to get Draco to talk to him). And Pansy was shooting him such menacing glares that he couldn't help but think that she would be the reason he would regret his decision; but, in truth, he was already regretting his decision. No one could make him feel the way Draco could - even now, the guilt and love he felt with regards to the other boy were sharper than any emotions he had ever felt towards anyone else - and now he was giving it up. He almost couldn't believe it, and yet he felt as though he had no other choice. It was fate, and Harry would know, he had been its bitch for long enough, but it didn't make him any less helpless before it: he knew what he had to do, and do it he would.  
  
On Wednesday night, Gryffindor had a party for its departing member - there was much drinking and rowdiness, as was to be expected (Gryffindor parties were exceeded by none, save perhaps those held by Slytherin), but the Golden Trio was not feeling particularly festive and spent most of the evening looking miserable. Harry's mind was occupied by Draco, who had been crying in his room since his last class, dedicating that night and no other to suffering on Harry's behalf. Harry went to bed early (by the party's standards) simply to escape the continuing stinging unpleasantness of the day, the day whose occurrence he was already cursing.  
  
On Thursday evening, after being shunned one last time by Draco, Harry bid loving farewells to Hermione and Ron (as well as Seamus, Dean, Ginny, Cho, Luna, and the few other friends that had survived the war) and apparated away with Dumbledore. In the New Ministry (established in London's BT tower, which maintained its name for commercial reasons), the Minister debriefed him on the situation in the United States, which was so full of conspiracies that Harry was having a difficult time figuring out who knew what. And, to his shock and unease, he ran into Percy Weasley, who had managed to ass kiss his way into a position of relative power: he was the secretary and aide to Vice Minister Cornelius Fudge (who, needless to say, was less than thrilled about his demotion and loss of face).  
  
The exchange between Percy and Harry was awkward and strained, leaving Harry with the unsettling impression that Percy knew more than he did. But the matter was pushed from his thoughts when, around midnight (and six pm east coast time), he portkeyed to Washington, DC.  
  
Around the same time (midnight, in England), now that Harry was safely gone, Draco finally brought himself to unroll the scroll that Harry had sent earlier that day. He sat on his bed, knees curled defensively under his arms, and read.  
  
Draco, forever my love even if no longer mine,  
  
I had to write. As much as you don't want me to do this, I want this no more than you. The difference is that you hate me for it and I cannot hate myself for it. However much I love and adore you, and would give my life for you, it is still the right thing to do. I would die a million times for you and for your happiness, but I can't sacrifice the lives of others for you, not when I can save them. My conscience will let me choose no other way, and for this I am truly sorry. If I could be selfish, I would be, in an instant. For I love you like I have never loved anyone - you let me feel like I have never felt. I can't say that you have allowed me to feel, for I have felt before, but no one has allowed me to feel as strongly, or as alive I have never wanted anything like I want you. I know you don't understand, but this is just something I have to do. I already regret my actions, more than you can imagine, but that doesn't stop me from acting as I must. Please believe that I love you completely and this is not something that will change. I hope, in time, you that you will be able to understand and to forgive. . . and, even though now you loathe me, to once again let me back into you heart and life. I love you, more than you'll ever know. I am so sorry for doing this during what should have been our long deserved retirement into a life of peace, and simplicity, and love. Would you believe that this the fourth time I have written this? Please find it in yourself to forgive me, who will always love you like no other.  
  
Yours forever,  
  
Harry  
  
Draco crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it away, acknowledging the pain in his soul, but maintaining the ever faithful numbness that protected him. He had abandoned it once - Harry (that siren) had tempted him away from a path long tried and approved, offering him love and comfort in exchange for strength and independence. Well, fuck Harry, he'd learned his lesson. He had been taking care of himself for most of his life, and he could do it again; indifference could take you a Hell of a long way.  
  
*  
  
In the beginning, Harry wrote ever couple of days, though as the weeks progressed, they became fewer and less detailed - Hermione and Ron read his letters eagerly, but Draco threw them away unopened. His first letter read as follows:  
  
Ron, Hermione:  
  
Guess what! I'm going to learn how to apparate, because here you only have to sixteen! It's so cool and I going to be quite as bad as Fred and George when they first learned. =^) I'm seeing lots of new things and meeting lots of new people - everyone is really loud and friendly, though I can't tell yet if this for real or if most people are just fake. The Secretary of Magic Affairs, this woman named Lillah Spelling, met me, then assigned this really hot chick to show me around and get me acquainted with things. Her name is Raven and she's very friendly. I haven't really been told what it is exactly that they want me to do, but several hints have been dropped that I'll be travelling a lot (hence the whole apparating thing). I think there'll be lots of speeches and hopefully some action too.  
  
I've only been gone two days, and I already miss you both so much. I feel like there isn't anyone here I can trust. . . and I am miserable without Draco. I think about him all the time, even when I need to focus on other things. I don't think he will ever write to me: will you let me know how he's doing? I just need to know that he's alright.  
  
I feel that there is something here that I must do, but this place could never be home. I'll be back as soon as I can. Your friend,  
  
Harry  
  
Harry was right, Draco never wrote back, but then again, Ron and Hermione didn't see much of him either. He was civil to them when they (though usually just Hermione) approached him, but quickly turned defensive if any attempt was made show support or to broach any personal topics, and then would usually turn his back and walk away. In Draco's mind, Hermione and Ron were Harry's friends and could not exist in any other capacity - they could never be his friends. He told himself he didn't care, and he didn't really, not that much. But it would have been nice.  
  
So he stayed away, preferring Pansy's company and, more frequently, merely his own. The highlight of his days was working with the Slytherin team in training. He worked them hard, but he was patient and it was obvious that he knew Quidditch like the back of his hand. Over the weeks, the younger Slytherins came to both admire and trust Draco, but he let none of them close. He was actually finding the peace in his solitude that he had had before he had ever met Harry - he was letting go of the fear that had been his companion for so long, and he was letting go of his newfound hurt. Now that he didn't have to pretend to be someone he wasn't, his behaviour began to reflect his disposition - numb and indifferent. Hermoine was concerned, but Draco found it a relief.  
  
However, three weeks after Harry's departure, the shoe finally dropped. Indeed, it had taken so long that Draco had actually allowed himself to hope (fool that he was) that he was going to be okay - if one can define his lack of feeling as 'okay'. Still, even the relief provided by that was to end with the arrival of Percy Weasely, on the orders of Acting Minister Fudge, who had taken over for the fading Dumbledore (who was dying of old age, not foul play).  
  
Percy interrupted DADA class, barging in and 'requesting' that Draco be excused from class, by order of Cornelius Fudge. There was little McGonagall could do to prevent him from being taken from Hogwarts and into custody.  
  
*  
  
Harry was miserable in. . . where was he today? Indianapolis? They moved from place to place so often that it was difficult to remember where they were at any given time. But it didn't matter where they were or what he was doing - giving speeches, advising operations, going on raids - he was profoundly unhappy. He hated the speeches the most, because he had to be motivating and inspirational when all he wanted to do was to leave the whole mess behind; the raids, however, were not quite as unbearable, providing a welcome outlet for his dissatisfaction and frustration. The situation he found himself was one that truly sucked. On one hand, the rebels were irrational, judgemental, close minded fanatics who would rather destroy the nation and kill everyone in it than see it continue in the hands of the present administration. On the other hand, the government was hardly the picture of virtue and righteousness. Indeed, Harry found their moral flexibility quite unnerving, though he was certain that it was better than the alternative.  
  
He wanted to go home. He had not received a single letter from any of his friends at Hogwarts - not Ron or Hermione and certainly not Draco - and was worried about them; and he was hurt by their failure to write. He had thought that Ron and Hermione had at least accepted his need to do this; but then why hadn't they written? He had made only one friend in the New World: Raven Nalla, the hot chick that had been assigned to keep him out of trouble. She was beautiful and friendly, but even her motives were rapidly becoming questionable.  
  
Just the other day she had tried to kiss him, rather persistently in fact. Harry had to practically fight her off, despite the fact that her actions had been completely unpredicted. He had asked her why she was suddenly interested, to which she had responded by saying that she simply wanted him to be happy. After that he had felt obliged to tell her about Draco (though obviously not everything), and, indeed, it had been both a cathartic and comforting experience and he was glad he told her. But he still couldn't understand why she had thrown herself at him, having shown no previous indications of being interested in him.  
  
So here he was in Indianapolis (possibly), lying in a guarded hotel room and feeling both homesick and sorry for himself. He was brooding and staring up at the ceiling when a knock sounded on his door; he figured that it had to be Raven, as she was the only person who made unexpected visits at night. He really wanted to be alone, but, without even sitting up, he yelled, "Come in!"  
  
Harry listened as the door openned tentatively then shut again. Finally, he tiled his head to look at Raven.  
  
He shot up from his bed to his feet. "Draco!"  
  
The blonde figure gave a strange, nervous smile, but neither made any other move towards each other. Harry was stunned and confused. "How, how did you get here?," he stammered.  
  
"The American government requested my presence. They said you weren't happy, and they want you to be happy," Draco purred seductively, altering suddenly and slinking towards Harry. When he was but a hairbreadth away, his body heat tangible along Harry's height, he whispered, "Don't you want me to be here?"  
  
Harry trembled with desire: he hadn't had sex in three weeks now and Draco had been on his mind continuously (plus, he was a sixteen year old boy). "Merlin, yes," he gushed, taking the thin figure in his arms and kissing him. He had meant it to be a loving kiss, but Draco responded immediately and passionately, parting his lips to suck in his tongue. Then everything was moving so quickly that Harry's mind was given hardly enough to register anything. Draco's hands were under his shirt, on his skin, in his pants, gripping him, turning him on so much that he couldn't help be go with it. He grabbed the firm ass and kneaded it forcefully, his tongue down the blonde's throat. Then shirts and pants were being ripped off and Draco was rubbing their erections together so desperately that it almost hurt. "I want you," Harry gasped deliriously. "I want to be inside you."  
  
Draco bit down on his earlobe, before slowly drawing away and crawling onto the bed, deliberately giving Harry a most appetizing view. He stopped in the middle of the bed, lowering his back so that his ass stuck up in the air and lazily pumping his own erection. "Come on," he purred. "Fuck me."  
  
Harry needed no second invitation and was almost instantly positioned behind the supple globes. He reached for his wand, but his companion said, "Don't bother, I'm already prepared."  
  
Harry groaned in desire, then parted the cheeks and slid in, encountering surprisingly less resistance than usual; but the thought was quickly driven from his mind as the body bucked into him, creating that fantastic friction. Gripping pale hips, Harry tried to establish the smooth rhythm that he knew Draco preferred, but Draco was growling at him to go harder and faster, until Harry was furiously pounding into the body, releasing all restraints on his passion. Draco came, and with a final few rough, erratic thrusts, Harry followed, then collapsed next to the limp figure.  
  
*  
  
He fuzzily returned to consciousness, a feeling of contentment welcoming him. The blonde lay peacefully in his arms and Harry allowed himself to smile, thinking back on what had happened. It had been strange, unexpected, out of character, but welcome. Draco had never been one to have sex before resolving a fight, and Harry was grateful that they hadn't had a drama last night over the fact that Harry had left in the first place. The sex had been. . . fantastic: quite different from their usual encounters, but amazing none the less.  
  
Then he frowned, remembering something - before last night, he and Draco had only tried to have sex from behind once, and it had been disastrous. Harry had wanted to try and Draco had reluctantly agreed. Harry had entered him (Draco had steadfastly refused to do it to him), and gone slowly, Draco whimpering with every gentle thrust; but when Harry had reached around to turn Draco's profile towards him, he had seen the tears escaping from tightly shut eyes and blood dripping from where his teeth were biting into his lip. Of course, Harry had immediately stopped, cursing himself for hurting his lover, for asking him to relive horrible experiences that he obviously associated with that position; and he had held the crying boy protectively all night, through nightmares far worse than any Harry had ever witnessed. Now Draco's own words echoed through his mind. "Like a woman, not like an animal."  
  
So how was it that last night they had been able to do it like that? And there were more mysteries: Draco never called it 'fucking' unless he was intentionally demeaning the act, and he never, never wanted rough sex like he had demanded it last night. He obliged when Harry wanted to be taken roughly, but it was never something he had wanted. What with his past and how tight he was, Harry couldn't blame him.  
  
Harry's frown was deepening and he felt a horrible feeling gnawing at his stomach. The actions, the words, the mannerisms - all of it had very much out of character. He apprehensively reached out to stroke the pale cheek, then jerked his hand away upon realizing that the skin was not a smooth as he remembered. He bent his head to smell the pale neck, then jerked his whole body away at registering that it was unfamiliar.  
  
"Hunh?," the doppelganger grunted, blinking awake, and propping himself up on his elbows to look at Harry, who was now glaring at him from where he stood beside the bed. "Who are you?," he growled, peering into blue eyes that were supposed to be stunning, but instead looked dull and lifeless.  
  
The blonde looked a little frightened, but had the balls to ask, "What do you mean, Harry?"  
  
Harry pointed his wand at the look alike, who suddenly looked terrified. "I know you're not Draco, you don't smell like him, you don't act like him, you don't talk like him, and you certainly aren't like him in bed."  
  
Despite his fear, the doppelganger sneered bitterly (an expression that did look very much like Draco's). "You certainly didn't seem to care last night. The great love of your life and you knowing betrayed him for a screw with a bad copy."  
  
"Shut up! I didn't realize until right now," Harry yelled, quite upset by the thing's words. "Now tell me who the fuck you are and why the fuck you're here! What do you want?!"  
  
The thing abruptly looked tired. "Agent Nalla hired me to make you happy, and this face and body was supposed to do that I guess, give you what you want. The government sometimes uses me for this kind of stuff."  
  
"This kind of stuff?! You mean tricking people or the prostitution?!," Harry had to fight back the hysteria and was urging him to do something extreme.  
  
The doppelganger winced, then transformed into an extremely gaunt and gangly boy, who could've been any older than Harry, and yet bore numerous scars on his face and naked torso. His eyes were grey and his hair dirty blond. "I'm a metamorphmagus," he whispered shamefully.  
  
Now Harry was concerned, horrified, and confused, as well as profoundly upset. "So?," he replied painfully. "That's no reason to resort to this."  
  
"Isn't it, Mr. I don't come from around here? I'm a freak, an outcast in both the magical and muggle communities! The muggles would kill me if they discovered me, but I can only live as scum amongst you lot! You even refuse to teach us magic and sell us wands, and then you dare to scorn and hate me for doing all I can to survive!" The wispy boy looked halfway between despair and rage, and his voice dripped with both.  
  
His words and emotions struck a chord of sympathy and loneliness in Harry, who stood silently watching the pitiful figure for a moment. "I'm sorry," he whispered, sitting next to the boy and tentatively putting his arms around him. When the boy began to cry, he tightened his embrace, and began to soothingly stroke his hair.  
  
"I'm gonna get into so much trouble for fucking this operation up," the boy moaned, but Harry had no reply to that. However, by the time the tears had faded to sniffles, Harry had formed a plan. "You know, in England, metamorphmagi are treated just like other wizards and witches. I even have a friend who's one. If you want. . . you could come back with me."  
  
The scarred face warily looked up into his. "How?"  
  
"You continue to pretend to be Draco until I have finished here, then I'll make sure you're there to portkey back with me when I go."  
  
"I don't know," the unhealthy looking boy replied uncertainly and distrustfully.  
  
"Then decide later," Harry hurried on, trying to sound convincing. "For now, we'll pretend that I don't know, and that way Agent Nalla will think you are successful at your mission and you can get some good food and sleep in the meantime."  
  
Chapped lips suddenly smiled shyly at him. "Really?"  
  
Harry nodded and smiled encouragingly. After an awkward pause, in which they both became conscious of their nudity, Harry finally asked, "What's your real name then?"  
  
"Brennan. No last name."  
  
Harry held out his hand and they shook. "Nice to meet you, Brennan."  
  
XXXXX  
  
If anyone is still reading this, I apologize for taking longer to get each chapter out. I have become discouraged and uninspired by the fact that I get no reviews. So, if anyone is still interested in what is to come, please review and bring motivation to a lonesome writer. I would also be curious about any guesses with regards to where you think this story is going. 


	19. The People vs Draco Malfoy

Disclaimer: If you still think these characters are mine, there is nothing I can do to dissuade you at this point. Please don't sue.  
  
Dear Readers: Thanks for the reviews! Any more you choose to bestow will be greatly appreciated. I must apologize for the last two chapters. I know they are quite hurried and would have benefited from more padding (for example, more convincing of Harry to go the United States, and more detail of his work there), but I was just too impatient to get to this chapter, which is the whole reason I decided not to end this story at chapter 16.  
  
Chapter 19: The People vs. Draco Malfoy  
  
Draco was only held in custody for five days before he was administered Veritaserum and led, in cuffs, to the stand. He had spent the last forty hours sitting on the floor of his cell, repetitively hitting his head against the wall, not sleeping and refusing food and water, at least according to the guard who had accompanied him to the courtroom. Draco couldn't remember anything after being informed several days ago that he was going to stand trial for being a death eater. It was a blank, and it felt as though he had only been told a few hours earlier. His attorney had come by, apparently, and had talked to him, but he couldn't remember that either. Not that it mattered, he would have to answer all questions truthfully with or without preparation; the visit had been more to assure that his attorney would ask the right questions.  
  
Trials in the magical world differed significantly from those in the muggle world. Most importantly, they tended not to take much time, as very little evidence needed to be presented and very few witnesses called forth, Veritaserum ensuring that anything said would be the truth. All that needed to be assured was that the right questions be asked so that the whole truth could come out - consequently, the prosecution/defence duality still existed, with a jury to judge.  
  
And so Draco was sitting in the chair on the stand, waiting for the proceeds to begin. He looked absolutely unflappable, but inside he was filled with fear and self hatred and an absolute sense of horror and dread. He was so stupid, so fucking stupid, to think that he was safe to lead a 'normal' life, just because those murderous, perverted bastards that had terrorized his life for years were dead. But of course, the past was not dead. The past would never be dead.  
  
Looking at the hostile faces that glared at him from the gallery, he was terrified and he shrunk back into his chair. Though he had never articulated the fear, even to himself, it became clear to him why he had always clung so desperately to secrecy. His wounds were too deep, his weaknesses too critical, and the hatred towards him too dangerous. This exposure would kill him, of this he was sure.  
  
The chaos was slowly ordering and quieting. Soon now, the trial would begin in earnest. Draco's eyes flicked around nervously, taking in the presence of Darren Wellington in the prosecutor's seat (who he recognized from the Daily Prophet articles on death eater trials and who was sitting next to Percy Weasley); a tired, defeated man was sitting in what he figured was the defence seat, and twelve unfriendly looking jurors were placed near the wall. Finally, his eyes rested on two faces that he recognized in the gallery - Ron and Hermione, released from classes by McGonagall, who had some idea, through her connection to the dying Dumbledore, of young Malfoy's role in the conclusion of the war.  
  
Hermione smiled weakly at Malfoy, trying to show support, but Malfoy was looking pasty and ill, increasingly covered with a fine sheen of sweat. In fact, he was beginning to feel like he might pass out, but then the trial began and his survival instincts kicked in, bringing everything into focus. Wellington was saying something to the jury, then he approached the stand.  
  
"Are you Draco Malfoy?," he asked pompously, clearly revelling in the positive attention he was receiving as the man about to put another disgusting death eater behind bars. The fact that Draco was a minor was far outweighed by the fact that he was Lucius Malfoy's son.  
  
"I am," Malfoy responded indifferently, but quickly, before the Veritaserum could pull the answer from him.  
  
"And are you, Mr. Malfoy, the son of the infamous Lucius Malfoy?"  
  
"In blood and name yes, but he was no father to me," Malfoy replied, grimacing as the Versatium made him answer completely: in truth, he would almost rather be convicted of being a death eater than for the truth to come out. However, the prosecution ignored his phrasing, clearly not interested in any mitigating circumstances.  
  
"Are you a death eater, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"No." Draco tried to sound smug, though it was a poor attempt, but he was definitely pleased at the surprise on the persecutor's face.  
  
"How can you say that, Mr. Malfoy?," Barrister Wellington asked, sounding wary.  
  
"I was never initiated, nor do I have the Dark Mark." This time his smugness was more real. Die you ungrateful shit!  
  
"Have you ever participated in or contributed to death eater violence?"  
  
Malfoy suddenly felt nauseous and confused enough not to be able to answer the question immediately, even with the help of the Veritaserum. Finally, he reluctantly said, "Yes."  
  
The burly prosecutor looked like he wanted to grin, but his sense of occasion kept him from something that indecorous. "In what way?"  
  
"Both Voldemort and my father received power boosts from me." Malfoy felt a panic attack coming on and he began to shake perceptively; and there was actually a boo from the audience.  
  
Wellington's eyes narrowed suspiciously, not sure where this was leading. "Through what means, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
Malfoy felt horribly cold, as icy fear streaked through him, willing himself desperately not to speak. With a hung head, he mumbled, "Through the power transfer spell."  
  
"What, Mr. Malfoy? I couldn't hear you."  
  
The condescending tone provoked such hostility in him that he actually yelled his reply, "THROUGH THE POWER TRANSFER SPELL, you poncy, deaf mother fucker!"  
  
There was a hush of silence and some confused whispers, and Malfoy gave an unpleasant smirk. He liked shocking people, and everyone looked either shocked or confused. Many didn't know what the power transfer spell was, and those who did didn't know very much about it. Wellington, however, did know something on the subject, and when he finally regained his composure, he asked, rather sceptically, "Are you claiming to be a Giver, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
There was collective gasp from the gallery, where Hermione was watching stoically and Ron was thumbing his forehead with the heal of his palm. Malfoy's face contorted into a dangerous expression of intense, murderous hatred. "Yes," he hissed.  
  
"You mean to say," Wellington said, definitely finding his footing again. "That you, a mythical Giver, a supposedly wondrous and mystical creature of fairytales, gave your power to Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy?"  
  
Malfoy was torn between humiliation, self hatred, and rage. He wanted to yell, that it wasn't his fault, that he'd been forced, tortured, raped; but the Veritaserum wouldn't let him, for those were not his true feelings. Whatever the truth may actually be, Veritaserum only allows for the truth according to individual under its power. So Malfoy fought back tears, and he said, "Yes. I let them do it."  
  
"THAT'S NOT TRUE!," Hermione suddenly yelled from the gallery where she was standing angrily. There was some commotion, then she was led from the courtroom by two guards. Ron tried to follow but she loudly told him to stay. When everything had settled down again, Wellington again turned to Malfoy with a predatory look on his face.  
  
"Have you ever killed anyone, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
Malfoy gritted his teeth then forced out a yes.  
  
This time the burly attorney did allow himself a malicious smile. "How many people have you killed?"  
  
Malfoy's face flushed an angry pink. "I couldn't say for certain."  
  
"Can you give a guess?"  
  
"Somewhere around a thousand." The announcement was, of course, followed by sounds of shock and disgust throughout the courtroom. Malfoy's eyes narrowed with hate and he just wanted to yell at them to sentence him to death already.  
  
"Do you feel any guilt, Mr. Malfoy?"  
  
"None at all," came the deadpan reply. You prick.  
  
"Can you give us any names to go with that astonishing number, Mr. Malfoy?," Wellington asked, knowing that a few names and faces would make the unbelievable figure that much more real to the jury.  
  
"I don't know the names of most of them," Malfoy said and he actually would have left it at that, had the Veritaserum forced out more. "I know my father and Goyle, Sr. were two of them. And anyone else in the Ministry the day it blew."  
  
The silence that followed was deafening and deadly, and almost a miracle considering the number of people in the room. Finally, the prosecution asked in an incredulous voice, "Are you taking responsibility for destroying the Ministry?"  
  
"Yes," Malfoy responded viciously. If he had to reveal the truth, he would get as much satisfaction out of it as possible.  
  
"How?," Wellington asked, still too surprised to come up with a better question and also hoping that Malfoy's explanation would prove unreasonable.  
  
"Through ancient hate magic. I forfeited my life and that of my worst enemy. That someone was able to save me from dying was probably my first lucky break ever," Malfoy said angrily and sarcastically.  
  
"That feat is attributed to Harry Potter," Wellington responded.  
  
It wasn't a question, so the Veritaserum couldn't make him reply, but he wanted to - his anger at Harry was reason enough. "Then dose him up on truth serum, put him on the stand, and I'll guarantee that he won't be able to claim it was him."  
  
Wellington was stumped. This was his ninth high profile death eater case, and it was turning into the only one that had encountered such bizarre circumstances. Still, he was determined to win this one, just as he had won the previous eight. "Have you ever killed any innocent people?"  
  
"No one is innocent," Malfoy replied smugly, as the Veritaserum accepted his reply.  
  
"Then let me rephrase, Mr. Malfoy," Wellington said sarcastically. "Have you ever killed anyone who wasn't a death eater?"  
  
"Yes. The Muggles above the Ministry died when the buildings collapsed."  
  
The prosecution was obviously displeased with this answer (though the jury and audience was enraptured), and he decided it was time to retreat and regroup, yielding the floor to the defence.  
  
The defence attorney, who introduced himself as Barrister Summers, was a withered, defeated man, prematurely aged by having lost handfuls of what he considered children to death eater charges. There was simply no sympathy for death eaters, even the minors; but he had hopes for this trial, and it could be seen in the twitching of lips, and in the excitement in his eyes.  
  
"Draco," Summers started kindly. "You said that you let the Dark Lord and your father take your energy. What exactly does the energy transfer spell entail?"  
  
Draco actually snarled at him, and there were a few surprised grunts from the gallery. He knew his attorney was trying to save him from a death sentence, but would rather have taken his chances than let this knowledge come out. His voice dripped hatred as the Veritaserum forced out his answer. "You must have sex with the receiver, who chants the words when your mind is blank enough to allow the transfer. And, of course, there are stupid smelly candles."  
  
A number of the faces in the jury and gallery went pale, as the full implications of what he was saying sunk in. Ron looked about to throw up, only now understanding why Harry and Hermione had stood up so resolutely for the Slytherin.  
  
Summers, however, was indifferent to Draco's hatred; indeed, he had encountered it before in Draco's cell, but he was going to get the boy off no matter what and he knew exactly what he was doing. "So your father and Voldemort both had sex with you?"  
  
"Yes," Draco gritted out, face aflame with humiliation and loathing (both for himself and for the world).  
  
"Starting at what age?"  
  
Draco's rage was beginning to cause him to hyperventilate, but the truth serum continued to force out answers. "Six, I think, (breathe) for my father. (Breathe) Fifteen for Voldemort."  
  
"And how, precisely, did your father and the Dark Lord make your mind blank?"  
  
Draco was breathing deeply now, his eyes closed, trying to the ease the panic attack that was threatening to engulf him. "Through pain. If there's enough pain, the mental barriers go down and the energy can flow out."  
  
Summers was still cool and collected, certainly the only person in that room who was. "So, were you tortured as part of this transfer?"  
  
Draco nodded weakly, but Summers needed words for the record. "Out loud please, Draco."  
  
"Yes," the ghostly boy croaked.  
  
"Draco, did you really let this happen to you? Or were you forced?. . . Were you raped, Draco?"  
  
The thin frame began to tremble violently, and he hunched over, covering his face with his hands, before finally moaning, "I don't know. I don't know. I dunno. I dunno."  
  
"The defence rests its case."  
  
*  
  
There were more gruelling questions the next day, but not really any more surprises, except that Cornelius Fudge had shown up for the verdict. He was decidedly unpleased with it too, despite the fact that the unique outcome had been obvious even the day before - Draco Malfoy was found not guilty, though he walked out of the courtroom looking like he had been sentenced to death. In his mind, he had. The Daily Prophet had guaranteed that his name, face, and story were known throughout the British Isles. As if the humiliation of having the world know he had been raped by the two worst villains in recent history wasn't enough, the world also knew he was a Giver and this not only put his own life at great jeopardy, but also the lives of any other Givers. For centuries now, they had been safe because the world thought them myths, and now this safety had been torn away, making Draco feel as Judas must have.  
  
However, despite being judged not guilty, Acting Minister Fudge had ordered him held in custody in the Ministry, both for his own protection (supposedly) and for the protection of the people against anyone who may want to use the young Giver. So Draco traded one cell for another, so that now he was in a white, sparsely furnished room that reminded him horribly of the first six years of his life, spent locked away in a white room such as this. His lawyer was throwing a legal fit, but there was little he could do, as Fudge's actions were supported by general public opinion: Draco was pitied, but as a potential weapon of evil, he was feared more.  
  
He was, however, allowed the occasional guest - not that there was anyone who would really visit. Severus Snape and Narcissa visited two days after his verdict had been pronounced, and Hermione and Ron came two days later, on the first Saturday.  
  
"Merlin, Malfoy, you look like shit," Ron said immediately upon entering the room, but his was tone was sympathetic. Hermione elbowed him, though even she had to admit that it was true: Draco had looked bad at the trial, but he had certainly deteriorated. His hair was dirty and unkept, his skin sallow, and his normally thin frame emaciated. And the white room had inspired nightmares the force of which he had not experienced in many years, and as a consequence he almost never slept.  
  
Hermione walked to him and bent down to where he was huddled on his mattress on the floor, barely noticing his guests. "Draco, are you okay?"  
  
After a pause, Draco struggled weakly to sit up, his voice as lifeless as his eyes. "As well as can be expected."  
  
Hermoine's face was etched with worry, and she slowly and deliberately reached a hand out for Draco, who, for once, did not flinch away, but rather looked curiously at their entwined hands. "I'm so sorry," Hermione comforted, before continuing on forcefully. "What they're doing to you is so wrong! I can't believe it! It's disgusting and outrageous! I've been writing to Fudge and the Daily Prophet and loads of other people about this!"  
  
Ron nodded awkwardly. "And to Harry."  
  
Hermione had purposely left that name out, but it got an unexpected reaction. Draco started chuckling, then laughing outright, then laughing hysterically. Ron and Hermione looked at him like he was insane (something that he was from time to time). When his laughter subsided, he asked, "Make me laugh some more. It's been ages. What did he say?"  
  
Now Ron was confronted with exactly why Hermione had not wanted to mention Harry - Harry had not responded to their letter about the trial at all, and their letter about Draco's confinement had received only a short reply that failed to mention anything about Draco at all, except for the standard ending, "How's Draco?" Indeed, Harry's letters had been getting shorter and further between, despite the fact that Ron and Hermione continued to write at least twice a week. It seemed excessively callus, especially for Harry, and it was highly irregular. There was no obvious explanation for the scant letters, but Ron agreed with Hermione's suspicions that it probably related to Harry's own suspicions regarding the American government. The more Hermione told Ron about the intricacies and history of that government, and of the Department of Magical Affairs in particular, the more Ron worried for his absent friend.  
  
"We're not even sure that he's receiving our letters," Hermione finally said, to which Draco released a giggle that luckily did not progress into another full fledged laughing fit. Then he stilled, and rubbed his eyes and temples for a moment. "I have to get of here," he said, sounding suddenly lucid. "This place is driving me batty."  
  
"This place is killing you!," Ron said, surprised by the emotion in his own voice. He honestly didn't know how to feel about Draco - he still harbored anger and dislike for the Slytherin - but he cared anyway. He supposed he could only watch someone be on the receiving end of a raft of shift for so long before he began to empathize. He had seen Draco try to please Harry, try to integrate into Harry's friendship circle, try to live unobtrusively, and somehow the punishment kept coming. He agreed now with Hermione: Draco didn't deserve all that he had been through, and it made him want to make it up to him for the fact that the world had been such a bitch to him.  
  
Draco gazed up into Ron's eyes, and the look they shared was the most real that had ever passed between the two boys. "I know," he said, then he turned to Hermione. "What about Dumbledore?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "He's not expected to last through the week. He's not even conscious, let alone coherent most of the time."  
  
"I don't suppose I'd last long enough for a hunger strike to do anything but kill me," Draco joked humourlessly. Hermione tried to smile, but Ron just looked disturbed.  
  
Draco sighed tiredly, then leaned against the wall. Hermione crawled onto the bed and leaned on the wall next to him, so that their shoulders touched. She looked at his exhausted face and hooded eyes. "Are you sleeping at all, Draco?"  
  
Draco shook his head, then closed his eyes all the way. "This place gives me nightmares like nothing else."  
  
"It does kinda creep me out," Ron replied, looking around.  
  
"It reminds me of my childhood room," Draco mumbled, resting on Hermione's shoulder - the presence of Hermione and Ron was giving him an unexpected respite from the fear of falling asleep, and his body could not help but take advantage of it. Seeing Draco nod off, Hermione motioned Ron to take Draco's other side. Ron moved to sit on his other side, and together they propped up the slouched figure. They stayed with him for four hours, sometimes whispering softly to each other, but mostly just thinking morosely. When they finally had to leave, it was the longest period of uninterrupted sleep he had had in eleven days.  
  
*  
  
Harry and Brennen got dressed, and Harry spent the rest of the night coaching Brennan to be 'Draco', knowing that Brennan's previous poor performance would make his acceptance of that performance all that more incredible. Brennan morphed back into 'Draco', and perfected his upper class English accent, and imitated Draco's mannerisms. By the time morning came, Brennan was a pretty good copy of the real Draco, and even Harry was impressed.  
  
He tried not to think of how awful what he was doing was. It didn't matter that Draco had told him to fuck off and never come back, he was still betraying him. Harry didn't know what he felt worse about - the fact that he had slept with someone else or the fact that he was replacing Draco with a copy. He repressed and ignored his guilt, telling himself that nothing was happening between him and Brennan.  
  
And nothing was, not really. 'Draco' travelled everywhere with Harry, except on raids and to restricted government meetings; and, of course, they slept in the same bed, but Harry never tried anything. 'Draco' was clingy and adoring, much more so than the real Draco, and as a week passed, then two, it became increasingly apparent that it was, in fact, Brennan who was clingy and adoring. To make the separation of the truth and the acting easier, Harry made Brennan morph back into himself every night, though it was obvious that the American did so reluctantly, desperately liking his new life as 'Draco'. Nor did it escape Harry's attention that Brennan snuggled close to him every night.  
  
The situation was unsustainable. Harry was having difficulties recognizing what which lines were being blurred and which decisions were the right ones. He wanted to go home.  
  
XXXXX  
  
Please, please, please review! You will be rewarded with my undying gratitude and devotion, and it may speed up the rate at which I churn out the next chapter. 


	20. Escape or Not

Dear Readers: Sorry it has taken ages to get this out. But in compensation, it is longer than usual. As always, PLEASE REVIEW. It gives me that warm tingly feeling I can't live without. I'M ADDICTED! And, for the record, I am actually an American - the hostility of this piece is directed towards the American government (and the Bush administration in particular), which I find repulsive, not Americans or the US in general. Enjoy.  
  
Ass covering clause: No, still not mine.  
  
Chapter 20: Escape or Not  
  
"Excited but scary to believe what we've become.  
Saints and sinners, something within us,  
We are lord of the flies."  
  
- Iron Maiden, Lord of the Flies  
  
It was only a matter of days before Draco collapsed completely and was taken to St. Mungo's again. Hermione read about it in the Daily Prophet at breakfast and was so incensed and horrified that she ran to the girl's bathroom to holler and scream.  
  
"HARRY! WHERE ARE YOU?! Why aren't you here to save him?!"  
  
She finally broke down in exasperated tears, which were only just beginning to dry when Ron found her. He was quite alarmed to find her crying, as crying girls wigged him to no end, so he just stood awkwardly by the door and uneasily asked, "What happened?"  
  
Hermione sniffed and wiped her eyes before answering softly, "Draco's collapsed. They've moved him to St. Mungo's."  
  
Now Ron was even more uncomfortable, as his feelings pushed him in different directions. Finally, he decided that there was no comment he could make, and instead turned to the ever practical question, "What are we going to do?"  
  
Hermione frowned, then rose unsteadily to her feet. "I'll figure out something. I don't know what, but something."  
  
*  
  
In the end, it wasn't Hermione who figured out what to do: it was Pansy. Hermione was sitting in the library, researching, endless in her faith that the solution to every problem can be found in books, if one only looks hard enough. Ron, on the other hand, was asleep next to her, a small drip of drool having made its way from his mouth to the page of the book he was currently using as a pillow. Hermione looked up when a shadow suddenly fell across her and her worried eyes met Pansy's serious ones.  
  
Hermione tried to smile sympathetically, but Pansy was not interested. "You've read the Daily Prophet, I take it?," the blonde asked bluntly. Hermione nodded.  
  
"I would like your help to rescue him." Again, this was said with surprising bluntness and directness (for a Slytherin).  
  
Hermione gestured to the sleeping Ron and the books laid out before her. "Well, I've been looking, but I -"  
  
Pansy interrupted her. "I have a way. I just need your assistance to implement it."  
  
Hermione's eyes were suddenly wide and her expression was caught halfway between surprise and skepticism: Pansy had never proven herself to be particularly brilliant, at least not when it came to academics. Still, Hermione was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt and she shook Ron's shoulder.  
  
"Huh? What?. . . I'm not asleep!," he vocalized as he startled awake.  
  
Hermione spared him an indulgent smile, then said nodded to the beautiful blonde. "Pansy here has an idea to rescue Draco."  
  
"Yeah?," Ron asked with a yawn.  
  
"It's simple: Polyjuice potion," Pansy stated, but Hermione was already shaking her head.  
  
"Thought of that. It would take weeks to make it and we don't have that kind of time."  
  
Pansy looked at Hermione with a slight hint of distaste, a smirk on her face. She didn't particularly like Hermione, despite having become a friend of Ginny Weasley, because she couldn't stand the girl's know-it-all attitude and the fact that she was so pedantic and condescending towards anyone she considered inferior in intellect (which was virtually everyone).  
  
"Who said anything about making it. I have some right here," Pansy said, pulling a small vial out of her robes. Hermione took it from her outstretched hand and inspected it for a moment - it looked like the real thing.  
  
"Where'dja get that?," Ron asked and Pansy's smirk just got wider.  
  
"I am still a Slytherin, even if our numbers have been decimated."  
  
Ron snorted and Hermione finally looked up from the vial, asking, "So, what do you want us for?"  
  
Pansy's smirk faded into seriousness. "I am not allowed to visit him, because of my family's connections with You-Know-Who, and I certainly couldn't replace Draco in the hospital, under any guise - as soon as I was discovered, I would be implicated and probably sent to prison. However, you two are both allowed to visit him, and because you are in the Ministry's good graces, whichever one of you is found after having taken Draco's place, it will be assumed that you are the victim of this plot, not its perpetrator."  
  
Ron frowned. "So, basically, you're giving us the Polyjuice potion and then leaving us to do the dirty work?"  
  
Pansy smirked, this time looking disturbingly like Draco. "Who says that getting that potion wasn't the dirty work?" Then she spun on her heal and left, leaving Hermione still holding the vial.  
  
*  
  
There was a long argument about who would pretend to be Draco while the real Draco was being smuggled out, and in the end Ron only won because he refused to be part of the affair if Hermione was the one left behind.  
  
And so, after obtaining permission from Headmaster McGonagall, Ron and Hermione took the bus from Hogsmeade (which was beginning to rebuild after the devastating December attack) to London. It was a long trip, but they had started out early and arrived in London around 1 pm. Getting to St. Mungo's was a small matter, as Hermione knew her way around muggle London pretty well. As in the Ministry, Ron and Hermione were required to give up their wands to the guards before entering Draco's room.  
  
The room was a standard hospital one - white walls and sparsely furnished. The lights were off, but Draco's form, sitting and staring out the window, could be made out by the light from the clouded sky. Draco slowly turned in his chair to look at them. It was obvious to both Ron and Hermione that he was looking healthier, even after only a few days in the hospital. His body was no longer emaciated, though it was definitely still too thin, and he looked as though he had slept a lot lately. However, his eyes were unfocused and a rather drugged expression graced his face, proof that magic could keep a body alive and healthy if it could stop the mind from intervening.  
  
"Draco," Hermione whispered. "We're here to help you escape." But the slender boy just blinked at them.  
  
"Damn. I hope this is the affect of a potion, not a spell," Ron muttered.  
  
"I think it is a potion," Hermione replied. Or else a quite powerful spell, but given Hermione's magical knowledge, it was unlikely that there existed a powerful and widely used spell of this nature that she didn't know about. On the other hand, her knowledge of potions was much spottier, and there were far more that were in common use.  
  
"Well, I suppose we ought to get on with it," Ron said after an apprehensive moment.  
  
Hermione nodded, then walked over to Draco's pillow, where she retrieved a strand of blond hair and dropped it into a small vial containing half of Pansy's Polyjuice potion; the other half was in another vial, already having gained a strand of red hair. Hermione handed the vial to Ron, then retrieved the other one from her robes.  
  
She glanced over at her boyfriend with a frown. "Well? Aren't you going to take it?"  
  
Ron shook his head. "Not until blondie here does. I wanna make sure Pansy's not trying to poison me."  
  
Hermione scowled at Ron, but didn't push the matter, then carefully approached Draco's still form, wondering how she was going to get him to ingest the potion. Draco's eyes were trained on her, then on the vial held in her outstretched hand. Still he didn't move until Hermione opened his hand to place the vial in it, then reflexes kicked in and he raised the vial, downing it in an instant.  
  
Hermione and Ron watched with morbid fascination as Draco sudden began to get taller and bigger. Then freckles began to appear on his face as his skin darkened a few shades and his bone structure altered; finally, a red mop of hair suddenly materialized on his head. Draco's face, however, remained expressionless throughout this transformation.  
  
"Okay," Ron said reluctantly. "I guess it's my turn. Bottoms up!" Then he felt the familiar sensations of inner change, and he was shrinking, and getting thinner, and his face was rearranging itself. When he finally felt that the change was complete, he hesitantly opened his eyes to see Hermione grinning widely at him.  
  
"Merlin. I can't believe that I have just willingly become that ferret." He tried to smirk and do a Draco imitation (it was, however, a poor imitation). "Why don't you watch where you're going? Oh, wait, I know: You're so poor you can't afford to pay attention! Why don't you just slip into something more comfortable?. . . Like a coma!"  
  
Hermione grinned even wider and laughed. "Do I at least look good?," Ron asked, checking out 'his' butt.  
  
Hermione smirked, then sauntered up to him. "Hmmm. . . you're gorgeous," she said, planting a big kiss on his lips, to which Ron eagerly responded for a moment, before they both drew back, looking a little disturbed.  
  
"Okay, that was freaky," Ron said nervously.  
  
Hermione nodded quickly. "I agree. . . Let's just get this done with."  
  
Ron began stripping, honestly not knowing which weirded him out more, the fact that Hermione kept eying him (in Draco's body) or the fact that she was helping the nonresponsive Draco (in Ron's body) from his hospital gown. Finally, the two boys had exchanged clothes and it was time. Hermione looked at her Ron, and gently caressed his face. "It doesn't matter what you look like. I love you."  
  
Ron smiled, lighting up Draco's face in an amazing way that only Harry had ever seen. "I love you too."  
  
Hermione gave him a quick kiss, then briskly led Draco out the door while Ron went to sit in Draco's spot by the window.  
  
*  
  
The guards looked at 'Ron' a little strangely, as he gazed at them expressionlessly and failed to take the proffered wand. Hermione smiled nervously and quickly took Ron's wand, as well as her own, then with a subtle hand on the small of Draco's back, gently led him away from the guards.  
  
She got Draco to Snape Manor, where Severus Snape gladly took custody of his favorite student (he was, after all, already taking care of his mother) - he may have been blinded, but he was still crafty and his home sported secret rooms that could hide someone so well that not even the Ministry could find him.  
  
Ron was, of course, eventually discovered and held in detention; furthermore, despite any close associations with Harry Potter and being in the Ministry's good graces (for his role in fighting against Voldemort and Lucius Malfoy), it looked very much like he was going to be questioned and forced to submit to Veritaserum. Help, however, came from an unexpected source: Percy Weasley. There had been some manner of reconciliation between Percy and his siblings after the death of their parents, but for the most part he simply tried to keep his distance from his brothers and sister. Hence, Ron was quite surprised when Percy marched into his cell and ordered the guard and interrogator to leave.  
  
"Wow. I can't believe they listened to you," Ron said with genuine wonder in his voice.  
  
Percy looked quite displeased with that comment and glared at Ron contemptuously. "Of course they did. I'm the assistant to the Prime Minister. I'm a very important person these days."  
  
Uncomfortably, Ron corrected, "Deputy Minister."  
  
Percy smirked nastily. "Prime Minister. Dumbledore died last night."  
  
Ron's face bunched up, but he refused to cry, not in front of Percy de Prat. "So, have you just come to gloat then?"  
  
This brother's face softened perceptibly, though his voice was devoid of emotion. "No. I'm going to order you released."  
  
Ron's eyebrows shot up as the surprises kept coming. "What?! Why?"  
  
Percy looked him in the eye for a long moment. "I was the one that signed the order for Malfoy be charged, and though it was an order widely supported, I feel guilty. I was there at his trial, I heard what he said, I watched him break down. If he ever reappears, I will do my duty and imprison him. However, for the moment, I am glad he escaped."  
  
There was nothing really to say to that, so Ron nodded and whispered, "Thank you."  
  
Percy bowed his head to his brother, then retreated from his room. He was true to his word, and Ron was freed the next day.  
  
*  
  
Brennan was thrilled to no end by his new arrangement. He had been exposed to the high life before, but rarely for this long. He wasn't really a prostitute, he was only one when the Department of Magical Affairs hired him (and even then, it depended on the particular job) - they kept him out of prison and juvie and they paid him so well that he couldn't refuse. Usually, though, he kept to the streets, stealing shamelessly, his special abilities giving him access to larger sums of money than can typically be retrieved from a pocket. And he felt absolutely no guilt: he had been forced to live like this or die, and it was his revenge for being made a pariah through no fault of his own.  
  
He liked Harry though. Harry didn't care that he was a freak and was going to rescue him from his own hellish life, and those facts made him a god in Brennan's eyes - or, at least, his only link to a real life. And he didn't really care that it was a life that actually belonged to someone else. In his mind, Draco Malfoy was just some rich, spoiled wizard, just like so many of those who had feared and shunned those like him. Draco didn't really deserve the great Harry Potter, but Brennan did, in compensation for all the shit he had been put through. Harry, though, did deserve Draco - beautiful, respectable, rich, smart, and great in bed (if the noises Harry made at night were anything to go by), but Brennan had the skills to be those things. Indeed, he didn't know what he wanted more, to have Harry Potter or to be Draco Malfoy.  
  
Brennan was a determined little leech and years on the street had taught him to take what he wanted.  
  
*  
  
Harry wearily opened the door to his latest hotel room (in Chicago): he was absolutely knackered, having spent all day arguing fruitlessly with the condescending chiefs of the military division under the Department of Magical Affairs. They had stubbornly refused to consider his proposal, despite what he saw as its obvious advantages; they seemed to have already chosen their path, even before consulting Harry, and he couldn't see how it was path that would be likely to bring around the termination of the war. Raven had promised that she'd mention his ideas later that night when she met with some of the senior officials, but Harry didn't have much faith in anything she said.  
  
He carefully locked the door, then called in a subdued voice, "Brennan!"  
  
"I'm in the bathtub!"  
  
Harry smiled - Brennan seemed to spend an inordinate amount both in bed and in the bath, claiming that he was just 'living the life of luxury' that the real Draco Malfoy was surely used to. Harry hadn't the heart to tell him the truth; besides, the truth was Draco's secret to tell, and Brennan had taken enough from him already.  
  
"How was your day,?" Brennan called.  
  
"Horrible. Those shits didn't listen to a word I said, they never do on anything important. Sometimes I wonder why they want me here at all - then I remember what a great propaganda tool I am, and I'm filled with a great sense of purpose," Harry replied, his last words laced with irony. He removed his jacket and shoes, then curled up on the bed for a quick nap.  
  
He was woken from his light slumber by a caress on his face and a warm, erotic pressure on his crotch - a pressure that was stroking him fantastically. He moaned and leaned into the touch for a moment, then sleepily blinked awake to see the beautiful face of his beloved. It took a moment for his fuzzy mind to remember, and then a familiar pain if loss gripped his heart. He reached out to push Brennan away, but froze in shock upon coming in contact with bare skin. He had woken up uncomfortably close to the 'Draco' a number of times, but so far the metamorphmagus had respected his request that they keep their arrangement purely practical. Until now.  
  
Brennan took advantage of Harry's pause, and pressed Draco's body along Harry's and purred, "Har-ree. . ."  
  
Harry shot out of bed so quickly that he actually got caught up in the blanket and fell to the ground. Then naked 'Draco' was again on top of him, trying to kiss him and kneading his arousal. "Brennan!," Harry cried angrily, pushing the boy forcefully off him and scrambling to his feet. "What the HELL are you doing?!"  
  
Now Brennan was also angry, hurt by Harry's rejection, and he stood ridgedly. "I'm trying to give you what you want! You're just too caught up in the past to take it! Get over it already! He wouldn't wait even a few months for you! How fucking great could he be?!"  
  
His words both hurt and angered Harry, so that they were now both in a similar emotional state: the fact that Draco had not been willing to wait for him had wounded Harry deeply, more than he had even wanted to admit to himself. "How dare you speak to me like that!? How dare you speak of him like that!? You don't know me and you know absolutely NOTHING about him! He deserves . . . he . . ." He voice lowered as his words faltered. "He doesn't deserve me leaving him, me being here with you. He doesn't deserve someone trying to take over his life."  
  
Brennan looked like someone had punched him in the gut, then had slapped his face for good measure. He grimaced and his features shimmered into his own - not the unscarred, modified version that he normally wore when Harry wanted him to 'be himself', but the unhealthy, slightly disfigured face that Harry had seen that first night. His lip quivered, before suddenly baring his teeth. He was comfortable with his own heartless logic, but hearing it spoken out loud was something else entirely. "How dare you judge me?! I'd like to see you get anywhere with THIS face! With all I have going against ME! The only chance I have at a real life is living one that ISN'T mine!"  
  
Resentment coursed through Harry, but he felt sympathy too. And above all, he felt a claustrophobic need to get away - from Brennan, from this room, from this entire country. He abruptly stalked to open suitcase and retrieved his invisibility cloak, then forced down his anger as he approached Brennan. He reached out a tense hand and gently stroked the vicious scar that ran down the right side of Brennan's face, from his temple to his jaw. "I'm sorry. Really. I can help you get out of here, but I can't do this."  
  
Brennan looked away from him, and Harry thought he saw tears sparkle in his eyes, but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to stay. This was not where he belonged and he had yet to be able to bring himself to care enough about anyone or anything in this country, not even its fucking civil war. He liked Brennan, he really did, but in the style of 'Gone with the Wind', he just didn't give a damn. Draco, Ron, Hermione, Hogwarts, England, himself - they were all higher on his list of concerns.  
  
"I'm sorry," Harry repeated sincerely, then he quickly strode out the door and from the room, picking up his wand on the way.  
  
In the hallway, he swiftly disappeared underneath his cloak, immediately feeling the relief and freedom that always came from being invisible. He'd had enough of this shit: he was going to find out what was going on now.  
  
*  
  
Harry waited outside of Raven Nalla's room for over two hours, crouched on the floor, before he saw the beautiful American woman leave the room a little before 11 am. He followed her - down the hotel hallway, into the elevator, to the top floor, down another hallway, then into a locked room. This room was empty and untouched, but Raven wasn't bothered by this. She walked straight towards the bathroom door, in front of which she brandished her wand and muttered some words that Harry couldn't quite make out.  
  
However, when she then opened the door, no bathroom was revealed, instead a long, dark corridor stretched as far as Harry could see. Raven stepped through the doorway, and Harry quickly followed before the door swung shut. They briskly walked down the corridor, then turned off to the left through a door guarded by two soldiers. This door led to a relatively large room with a large circular table in its center; around the table sat ten men and two women, some of whom Harry recognized and other whom he didn't. Lilah Spelling, the Secretary of Magical Affairs (the woman who had originally contracted Harry), was one of them.  
  
"Ms. Nalla," Secretary Spelling said. "Thank you for joining us. Care to give us an update on the Potter situation?"  
  
Raven took the only chair left, a position that left her back towards the door (where Harry was standing). "As well as can be expected. He and that metamorphmagus are practically attached at the hip. It's unexpected that Potter hasn't seen through its guise. It's either a better actor than we thought or Potter's stupider than though. Or maybe he just doesn't care that it's not the real deal. I think he's pacified for the moment, but I can't guarantee that he will continue to be so."  
  
Spelling nodded. "Nothing more can really be expected. Potter was never anything more than a short term solution. And he's proven effective, the people are getting a second wind to fight, but it will fade again when the fighting doesn't stop. We need to give them a real reason to keep fighting. Something that they won't easily forget and that will throw their support behind the government permanently."  
  
"Too bad the Trade Towers have already been levelled," one of the men joked dryly.  
  
No one laughed, but Spelling did reply. "That successfully demonised the Muslims, but we need another such event that will let us demonize people within the country, people that look just like you and me, that could be your neighbor or your friend Joe, or your brother, so that the people will be too paranoid and afraid of each other to trust anyone but the government. Terrified people are easy to manipulate."  
  
There was a pensive silence before a man that Harry recognized as head of the military division of the Department of Magical Affairs spoke up. "We had a 'meeting' with Potter earlier today. I think he's getting suspicious and he's beginning to realize that we do have the capacity to end the fighting, if we simply deployed it right. It's not a far jump of logic from that realization to the conclusion that we are purposely continuing the fighting."  
  
Secretary Spelling sighed. "We'll send him back to England soon. Just keep up the façade for a bit longer."  
  
Suddenly and with no warning, the door opened and it swung straight into Harry, forcing an audible 'Ooph!' from the raven haired boy. He immediately stifled it and moved away from the door, but the damage had been done. Most of the round table was facing towards him, a frown on each face, and the uniformed man emerging from the doorway was looking around with confusion. Not daring to even breathe, Harry slipped from behind the entrant and into the corridor, suddenly terrified and desperate to flee the room of powerful, dangerous men and women. He walked/ran as quickly as he could while still being silent (for fear of the soldiers outside of the room), but nearing the exit of the corridor failed to bring relief as he was reminded of the fact that he didn't know how to open the door. So he did the only thing he could - he leaned against the wall (not too close to the door this time) and prepared to wait, again.  
  
He was luckier that last time and he only had to wait ten minutes before Raven Nalla came down the corridor, looking a little wary, muttered the words, then stepped through the doorway. Harry followed her into the hotel room, then waited for a moment for Raven to disappear through the other door in the corridor, eager to create a distance between himself and her. He waited silently for almost ten minutes, frozen with fear, before slipping through the door himself and breathing a sigh of relief upon hearing the click of it locking behind him. The hallway was empty and he immediately took off at a run. He ran to the stairwell, then flew down four flights of stairs until he was on his floor. He rushed to his room and fumbled with his electronic key, finally bursting into his room, panting heavily and tearing off his cloak.  
  
Brennan (now dressed and scarless) was startled awake and sat up, blinking at Harry. "I didn't think you were coming back," he mumbled groggily. Then he noticed Harry's pale and sweaty appearance - he looked like someone going through withdrawal (a look he recognized from personal experience). "Are you alright?"  
  
Harry shook his head: he didn't know what to say or think and his mind was a swirling mess. He stumbled towards Brennan, who reached out and pulled Harry onto the bed. Harry allowed himself to be held, too numb to react or even think. He was, however, tired, and soon fell asleep.  
  
*  
  
Harry woke the next day to a ringing phone - wakeup call. He fumbled with the receiver for a moment. "Hello?"  
  
"Harry, it's 0700 hours. Get dressed, you're going on a raid in a half hour." Click.  
  
Only then did the night before come rushing back to him and he shot up. "Oh shit!"  
  
"Huh?," Brennan moaned.  
  
Harry was already out of bed and quickly getting dressed. "Brennan, when I get back this evening, we're leaving. Or I'm leaving anyway, and you can come too if you want."  
  
Brennan sat up in bed. "What?"  
  
"I'm not doing this anymore. I'm going home. I hate this place. Meet me at the International Terminal of O'Hare Airport at 1800 hours this evening if you want to come with me. Otherwise, it's been grand." Then Harry disappeared into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. He reappeared shortly and began packing his invisibility cloak and a few other belongings into a small backpack. Brennan had not moved from his place on the bed, being rather frozen in indecision.  
  
Harry was soon satisfied that everything of importance was on his person and he started for the door, taking a brief moment to tell his companion, "Brennan, come with me or not, it's your choice. For what it's worth, I want you come and I think you'll be happier in England. At least there you won't be shunned for who you are."  
  
He looked at Brennan for a long moment, hoping for a reaction or for the metamorphmagus to meet his eyes, but to no avail. "I hope you're there at the International Terminal at 1800 hours. If not, I wish you the best of luck with the rest of your life."  
  
Then Harry left the room. He knew he had been harsh, but he simply couldn't bring himself to care. In the absence of Draco and his friends, he just couldn't find it in himself to give a damn about anything except going home.  
  
*  
  
A guard was waiting outside of his room to escort him to the portkey site, where he met up with four young Magical Marines. "What's the target?," Harry immediately asked, returning their salutes.  
  
"It's an infiltration ops, sir." Lieutenant Sein replied. "The terrorists are holding several hostages, and we have been ordered to portkey to a location near their headquarters, then sneak into the stronghold and rescue the hostages."  
  
It sounded like suicide, but this was not a sentiment he could share with the marines. "Okay, then, what's the infiltration plan?"  
  
Lieutenant Sein held out his hand to one of the other marines, who handed him a large tube of rolled paper. Sein unrolled the paper to reveal blueprints of the building they were supposed to be infiltrating, then he pointed to two lines that ran across the entire page as well as under the building of interest. "That's the sewer system. With the help of a blowtorch or magic, we should be able to get into the building right there, which we believe is a janitorial room in the basement. However, to go between different parts of the building we would have to pass retinal and voice identification scans. Instead, we are going to have to go through the vents in the basement until we are below the room with the hostages. Once there, we will cut through the floor with magic, and then hopefully be able to lead the hostages back the way that we came."  
  
The plan was obviously risky, but wasn't as outrageous as some of the missions that Harry had gone on so far - the Americans were ballsy, and seemed to have a particular, uncanny talent for the extremely dangerous and the extremely poorly planned. So Harry nodded his ascent.  
  
*  
  
Infiltrating the terrorist HQ had been eerily, disturbingly easy - the sewers had been absolutely revolting, smelling like faeces, urine, rot, vomit, and all many of foul stench, and getting dirty had been absolutely unavoidable, but no real obstacles, human or otherwise, were actually encountered. It was a small matter of magic and a blowtorch that allowed Harry and the four marines into the basement, where again, no obstacles were met. The trip through the air vents was decidedly unpleasant and cramped, made worse by the fact that they all stunk awfully.  
  
Unfortunately, problems began when they tried to cut through the ventilation shafts - Harry traced a circle along the roof part of the shaft while muttering the words that would not only sear through the mettle shaft but the concrete above it too; but instead, these actions caused the entire shaft to lurch violently, then tear apart at a nearby seam, pouring out its five occupants onto the basement floor below.  
  
After several seconds, the nausea of the fall and the dizziness of the landing faded, and Harry looked up to see that they were surrounded by about twenty five unfriendly looking wizards and witches.  
  
He struggled to his feet. "I knew I should've left yesterday."  
  
XXXXX  
  
Review! Please? (Beg, beg) I know this story is getting a little long, but take comfort in the fact that I am winding it down (for good this time!). 


	21. Second and Third Chances

Disclaimer: No. I own nothing, nada, zip, zero, rien, niente. In fact, I have not even received my due pay check. Grrr. . .  
  
Readers: Please review (even if the story has taken a downward plunge of late).  
  
Chapter 21: Second and Third Chances  
  
"Maybe she will, maybe she won't. It's easy to say, hard if you don't. You've got to make the most of the day. . . for beauty dies young."  
  
- Lowgold, Beauty Dies Young  
  
"If I were you, I wouldn't move," a beefy, red faced man sneered, stepping a little inside the circle of wand-sporting witches and wizards.  
  
Harry glared at him, but the truth was all too obvious - the ease in which they had entered, the collapse of the vent, the men waiting below - he had been set up. What better way to kill two birds with one stone? Getting rid of that troublesome Potter and creating an event that would shock and anger the populace, all in one go. He was a fool for not seeing it sooner. The Department of Magical Affairs would have known that security had been breached the night before when the door had swung into Harry; he had been an idiot to think that he had escaped unidentified. Something about this country just made people stupid (or was it just him?). Maybe it was all the TV he had watched since arriving.  
  
"There aren't any hostages?," Harry asked bitterly, still sprawled on the ground.  
  
The beefy man chuckled. "There certainly are. Or were, rather. Makes yah feel all fuzzy about 'em bastards at the DMA, dunnit?"  
  
Harry's mind was racing in panic, desperately grasping for any way to avoid what was clearly imminent death. He was terrified - he had faced death before, but the thought of dying here, away from everyone he cared about and from everyone who cared about him, made it infinitely more unbearable. The choice, however, was taken out of his hands by one of his subordinates: Lieutenant Sien had subtly positioned his wand while their captors had been focused on Harry, and he now made his move. "AVADA KADAVRA!"  
  
"NO!," Harry yelled frantically, at the same time that the three other soldiers brandished their wands, one of the of their captors collapsed (the beefy 'leader'), and two dozen others replied to the curse in kind. "AVADA KADAVRA!"  
  
I AM NOT GOING TO DIE HERE! DRACO!!! Hysteria and adrenaline flooded through Harry, and then something deep inside him snapped and a swell of energy and rage overtook him. "STUPEFY!"  
  
*  
  
The potion had worn off after several days and Draco came around to find his circumstances much improved. He found himself depleted of energy and somewhat depressed, but altogether saner and freer from fear than he had been since Harry had left. He didn't see much of his mother for those few days, as she was otherwise engaged by her inner world, but Severus spent a lot of time with him - mostly out of guilt, but also out of genuine affection for his delicate, brilliant protégé.  
  
The ex potions master and Draco were taking a walk through Snape Manor (both feared that Draco would be recognized if they indulged the desire to walk outside), when it happened. The recovering blonde felt his legs go suddenly weak, but this forewarning was very brief, and he almost instantly collapsed, his knees cracking painfully against the stone floor. He tried to break his fall with his hands, but his arms refused to support him as well, so his face took much of impact of the tumble.  
  
"Malfoy? What happened? Are you alright?," Severus asked harshly, but it was a tone that Draco had learned to interpret as concern. Still, the collapsed boy couldn't do anything more than gasp for breath as he felt energy - was it life itself? - drain from him. Somehow though, he knew, instinctively, what was happening, and the knowledge comforted him. Indeed, he suspected that he could sever the connection if he really tried, but he didn't want to; for if he did, he would never again have this opportunity to die for the only person who could make that sacrifice mean something.  
  
The whole transfer only took several seconds and Draco lost consciousness with Harry's name on his lips and Snape's hand on his hair.  
  
*  
  
Harry felt power flow through him and into magic - it was a power above and beyond his usual level, and that had only been matched months ago when he had been facing off against Voldemort. He watched, suddenly detached, as that bright power lashed out as his captors, first striking down one, then immediately splitting into two dozen flashes of light that arched from the first body to the all the others in the quickly degenerating ring.  
  
Harry himself was struck by the killing curse, and for a moment his heart had stopped and his entire body froze, but it was quickly rejected by his own magical force. He shook his head to clear his mind, then focused on his surroundings: no one was moving. He scrambled to his feet and hurriedly began inspecting the bodies - a number were dead, including his three subordinates, and even more were stupefied.  
  
What the Hell had happened? But as soon as he asked himself that question, he realized that, inexplicably, he already knew the answer - Draco. Somehow, an ocean away, in his hour of need, magical energy had been transmitted from the Giver to himself. Harry felt an icy rush of dread: had he killed the other boy?  
  
But there wasn't time to linger on such thoughts, and Harry got moving before reinforcements came. Harry pointed his wand at the wall, in the direction from which he had came through the vents, and cried, "Destructo!"  
  
Part of the wall crumbled and a large hole appeared, large enough for him to step through if he bent a little. In the next room he did the same, then twice more before finding himself outside the janitorial room. Desperation gave him the strength to continue, and he kicked down the door and jumped into the manhole that opened into the sewer. The entire escape had only taken about five minutes.  
  
He waded quickly and determinedly through the muck, spurred on by the sound of shouts that he could hear in the distance. As soon as he had gone far enough, he shoved his hand into his pocket and portkeyed to the room from which the entire horror had begun that morning. Not wanting to be found, he opened his locker, retrieved his backpack, then, wrapped in his invisibility cloak, teleported to the international terminal at O'Hare airport. It was 1715 and Harry was exhausted, but he continued on on auto pilot, fuelled by sheer force of will. He changed out of his smelly military fatigues and into some clothes he stole from the overpriced airport shop. Then he checked the flight departure times and removed his cloak to wait for Brennan.  
  
Brennan did, in fact, show up, on time even. He was the one to find Harry, as Brennan was disguised as a young African American man. He covered Harry's eyes with his brown hands and asked, "Guess who?"  
  
But Harry was in no mood for playing. He shrugged of Brennan's hands and turned to him. "There's a flight to London at 1845. If you're coming, then you're going to have to share my cloak with me, 'cause we're sneaking on."  
  
Brennan smirked and instantly cuddled up to Harry, who just rolled his eyes, grabbed the metamorphmagus' hand, and hurriedly tugged him into an elevator, where he hid them both under his (magically expanded) invisibility cloak. Harry ignored the fact that Brennan wrapped his arm around his waist to guide him through the airport (Brennan, unlike Harry, had at least flown before). The airport was crowded and they couldn't avoid bumping into a few people, but, while it startled the muggles, it was quickly written off as the fault of visible members of the crowd.  
  
They sneaked past the security and passport control, hurried to their departure gate, then slipped into the 747. Most of the passengers had already boarded, so they removed their cloak in the back of the plane, where the food trolleys were stored, then slid into two empty seats.  
  
The flight was uneventful. Harry slept for almost the entire time, exhausted from the horrors and stress of the day, and filled with a feeling of relief that had been missing ever since leaving England. Brennan spent the seven hours watching the tiny screen on the back of the seat in front of him, much less calm than Harry. He was nervous and scared, as well as hopeful and excited about leaving his homeland, and these emotions warred for dominance. Finally, he fell into uneasy sleep.  
  
Once the plane had landed, Harry and Brennan sneaked into the airplane bathroom and teleported to Hogsmead (note: teleportation is not possible over vast distances, hence the use of the muggle airplane). Harry and Brennan looked about at the town, still in the process of being rebuilt, and Harry couldn't help but laugh loudly and hysterically, elated beyond imagination. Indeed, he laughed until he fell to his knees crying, the stress of the last months finally finding relief.  
  
Brennan regarded him worriedly, not as indifferent to the strange looks they were getting. "Harry, are you okay?"  
  
"I'm home, I'm home, I'm home," he replied brokenly. Then he shot to his feet, snatched Brennan's hand, and sprinted down the road, towards Hogwarts, through the hidden passage, and into his old school. It was nearly 9 am, and classes had just begun. Harry was briefly torn between going to see Headmaster McGonagall and going straight to class to see Ron and Hermione and. . . Draco. His heart suddenly contracted painfully, and the decision was made for him: he ran outside to where the sixth year Gryffindors and Slytherins were supposed to be having Care for Magical Creatures, assuming that the class scheduals had not changed.  
  
The scheduals had not changed and Harry saw familiar figures crowded around something. "Draco! Ron! Hermione! Hagrid! Everybody!"  
  
Every face shot up for a confused moment, then several people dashed towards Harry (Brennan was trailing behind at some distance). "HARRY!," Ron and Hermione screamed in unison and Harry was quickly surrounded by a group of excited Gryffindors (plus Pansy), while his two best friends attempted to squeeze him to death. Of course, this attempt only became a serious threat when Hagrid barged through to give him the tightest hug he had ever encountered; but his wheezing gasps soon got him released.  
  
For several minutes, the confusion and excitement was too much for any communication to really be possible, but Harry finally managed to ask the question that was at the forefront of his mind. "Ron, Hermione. Where's Draco? He's not still mad at me, is he?"  
  
He tried to look over the head surrounding him, but he saw no telltale platinum hair. Surely Draco was not still so angry that he would run off at the sight of him? He wanted to be happy, but he knew he couldn't until he saw Draco. Then he noticed that an uncomfortable silence had descended upon his classmates, and many of them tried to avoid his eyes: the extent of their relationship was not common knowledge, but the decimated ranks of the sixth years in Draco's and Harry's respective houses knew, just as they knew of Draco's abduction by and subsequent escape from the new Ministry. Hermione and Ron were looking at Harry strangely. Finally, Hermione answered.  
  
"Harry, we tried to tell you, we wrote over and over again. Draco was tried by the Ministry -"  
  
"WHAT?!," Harry cried, the hysteria suddenly returning with a vengeance.  
  
"Listen! He was tried, he was imprisoned - not because he was guilty, but because the Ministry learned that he was a Giver. But he escaped, Harry! He escaped!" Hermione tried to convey hope in her voice, but didn't dare tell the entire truth of Draco's escape while there were so many people present.  
  
Harry felt a vicious stab of grief and guilt and remorse, instantly jumping to the conclusion that his presence would've been able to prevent this appalling development of events. Draco had known that Harry's departure would only result in suffering and regret, but Harry had been unable to heed his warnings. And if Draco was indeed on the run, what had been the effect of the unexpected energy drain yesterday?  
  
"No, no, nononononono. . .," he whispered, his legs failing him, and Ron grabbed his arm to keep him up. Hermione's attention, however, had been caught be something else: an awkward, lanky youth shuffling his feet several meters away. "Who's that?"  
  
*  
  
Draco groggily blinked awake, his eyes gradually focusing on Severus' hunched body, sitting motionlessly in a chair next to his bed. The greasy ex potions master suddenly snorted and released a throaty snore; Draco giggled softly, if a little giddily. He was alive! Weak and fatigued, but alive. A goofy grin materialized on his face and relaxed to bask in the relief of this fact. Actually, the relief was almost more surprising than the fact itself: he had almost thought that he'd lost his will to live, and it was invigorating to be proved wrong. Still, exhaustion soon pulled him back to sleep.  
  
He was woken several hours later by loud voices coming from outside his room. Snape's angry and protective voice was unmistakable. "I said you two could use the floo and only you! Not HIM and whoever that is!"  
  
Hermione's righteous voice responded patiently, "Don't you think Draco would like to see him? Don't you think it's his decision to make?"  
  
Draco struggled to sit up, then to his feet, prickling with anticipation. Could it be? Was Harry here? Despite his conflicting emotions regarding Potter, he knew he had to see him, if that was, indeed, who his visitor was. He shuffled towards the door, leaning on the wall for support. Luckily, it was a small room (it was, after all, a secret room).  
  
Snape growled. "Malfoy collapsed last night. He hasn't regained consciousness yet."  
  
Draco appeared in the doorway, still propping himself up, and smirked. "Actually, I woke up earlier, but you were asleep."  
  
Severus spun around and, for a moment, surprise and relief obvious on his face and actually looking as though he might smile. At a loss at what to say, he scolded affectionately, "You should've woken me."  
  
Draco's smirk grew impossibly wide. "I figured that if your snores didn't wake you up, then there was nothing my feeble voice could do."  
  
Severus snorted and Draco turned his attention to his visitors: Ron and Hermione each sported genuine smiles; Harry's face was an amusing combination of ecstatic grinning and sheepish, ashamed eyes; Draco didn't recognize the fourth individual, but he was looking at him with uncomfortable hostility. Draco quickly shifted his glance away from the lanky stranger to Ron and Hermione. "Thank you. Really."  
  
"What happened last night?," Snape asked gruffly, moving closer to Draco.  
  
Draco looked intensely at Harry. "I think that's something we should ask Potter."  
  
Harry flinched at the use of his surname and at the way that everyone had suddenly and accusingly turned towards him. "I'm not sure, exactly. I was surrounded and I thought I was going to die. But then I was determined not to, and when I tried to stupefy one of my captors, I felt this rush of energy and my spell went ballistic, splitting up and hitting, like, twenty people. I knew. . . afterwards, that the boost had come from Draco, but I have no idea how it happened. I certainly didn't try to do it."  
  
There was a moment of tense silence, as everyone digested this, but no one really knew what to make of it. Actually, both Hermione and Draco had a theory (and it was the same theory), but neither felt particularly inclined to share it in front of everyone. Finally, Harry spoke up, cringing from the expected rejection, "Could I, uh, speak to Draco alone for a moment?"  
  
"No! He should be in bed! He -"  
  
Draco cut off Severus with a delicate hand on his arm, then, with a smirk, "It's okay. I'll get back in bed AND avoid strenuous activity."  
  
Ron started coughing to hide his laughter, Hermione rolled her eyes, Brennan snorted, and Snape looked distinctly displeased. Harry immediately started towards Draco, determined to disappear into the room as soon as humanly possibly. He shuffled Draco backwards and quickly closed the door, causing the weakened blonde to stumble and nearly fall. "Fuck, Harry. Watch it. I'm not exactly stable on my feet here."  
  
He looked up at Harry and saw moisture in his eyes. He let Harry help him to his bed, then turned questioningly to him. His heart was threatening to rip him to shreds, but his unaffected façade helped numb his longing, his desperation, his hurt. He would not allow himself to hope again - not for Harry, not for love. The destruction of that hope had hurt more than he'd thought possible, and he would not allow himself to be in such a position again.  
  
They gazed into each other's eyes for a long time - Harry's begging and Draco's masked - before Draco finally spoke with forced nonchalance. "Well? You wanted to speak to me?"  
  
Harry flinched and grimaced; then he nodded. "I, uh. . . I mean, you were right. I made the biggest mistake of my life, and there is nothing I regret more than. . . the fact that I hurt you."  
  
For a long moment, Draco did not move a muscle and Harry had no idea what was going on beneath the schooled features. "O-kay. . . What exactly do you want me to say?"  
  
Harry looked hurt and exasperated, and he stood and paced briskly. "I want you to forgive me, Draco. And to give me another chance! I know I don't deserve it, but I love you and don't want to live without you!"  
  
Draco's face betrayed him and he forced himself to scowl so as not to cry. He voice was husky and he looked away from Harry's rigid form. "I forgive you. I forgave you even as you left me, I loved you too much not to. . . But there is no other chance to give."  
  
Harry fell to his knees in front of Draco and tears were escaping down his cheeks. "Why not? Draco, I swear -"  
  
Draco cut Harry off with a finger on his lips and a shake of his head. "It's not up to me. Just as you left England, now I must leave. But unlike you, I will not be returning." Harry began to interrupt, but Draco rushed to continue, though his voice was cracking. "Harry. I'm not safe in England. My life and freedom are in jeopardy here. I must go somewhere else, somewhere where my face and name are not widely known, where people don't know what I am."  
  
Harry looked deeply into Draco's eyes, and was finally able to recognize the resignation there - and that hurt more than anything else. Draco had no faith in him, no hope: it hadn't even occurred to him that Harry might be willing to sacrifice to be with him. And this fact made Harry desperately want to prove his love, to defy Draco's low expectations.  
  
The Gryffindor seized Draco's thin hands and urgently declared, "Then I will go with you. Wherever you go. I know you don't believe me, but I really have learned a lesson. You don't know what you got until it's gone and all that shit. You're right, I've paid my debt to the world and now I want to spend the rest of my life paying the word's debt to you. If you'll let me. . . if you'll have me."  
  
A tense silence was all that was left in the wake of Harry's words. Draco turned his face away from the searching emerald eyes for a long moment, and it was only the trembling of his hands that betrayed him. Finally, he turned back to Harry, looking miserable and exhausted, and he said in a tired voice, "Harry, I swore to myself that I would never let you hurt me again. I feel safer alone. . ."  
  
Harry had a nauseating feeling that Draco was going to refuse him, and he desperately pre-empted such a refusal, this words gushing nervously and pleadingly. "Let me come as a friend then. Give me the opportunity to show you that you can trust me, that I won't hurt you. Like a trial period or something. Please. See me here, on my knees? This is me begging."  
  
XXXXX  
  
Okay guys, I'm wrapping it up in a chapter or two. (For real this time.) In acknowledgement of some criticisms, I admit that I have learned a valuable lesson in writing this piece: quit while you're ahead. This last (additional) section of my story lacks the steam and plot strength of the earlier chapters; I realize and will keep this in mind next time I try such a piece. No add-ons. 


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